


The Sheltering Tree

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "Casual Sex", Anthea Ships it with Force if Necessary, Friends With Benefits, Greg Lestrade to the Rescue, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped Mycroft, Let's Be Fuck Friends, M/M, Mycroft Holmes Attempts To Manage His Own Emotions, Oblivious Boys So In Love, Rampant Feelings, Texting, Whoops We're Soul Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-06-16 16:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 89,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15441576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes are professional men leading busy lives. Their casual arrangement to help each other unwind is just what they both need right now—until life gets a little more complicated.





	1. Arrangement

**Author's Note:**

> _The Sheltering Tree_ is written with a great deal of love and thanks for E.S.

"Lestrade!"

The sound of Greg's name caught his ear through the downpour. The call came from beneath a black umbrella, just visible in the dark beyond the churchyard gates.

Spitting, he hurried towards it.

The rain was icy cold and now driving down in sheets. Its hiss against the pavement made a hell of a noise. As Greg reached the umbrella it tilted to admit him, then dropped back around their heads at once. He gasped in the sudden dry space, shocked, reaching up to scrape his sopping hair off his forehead.

He couldn't resent the amused huff. He was too grateful for the shelter.

"You look like a man in need of nicotine," Mycroft Holmes remarked, and reached inside his overcoat with a gloved hand.

Greg's heart nearly caved. "Christ. I could kiss you. _Please."_

With a smirk Mycroft retrieved two cigarettes from the packet. He handed one to Greg. A sleek silver lighter appeared from inside another pocket. He sparked it, held it out and kept still as Greg leant close, lighting the tip of the cigarette with narrowed eyes.

When it had taken, Mycroft lit his own.

"John and Sherlock are fine," Greg said, and closed his eyes as the first lungful of nicotine slugged its way through his veins. He could feel rain creeping down the back of his shirt; he'd never been so cold and wet in all his life. "John twisted his ankle climbing down into the crypt - packed him off to A&E - your brother's being shuttled back to Baker Street now. I've got someone stationed outside the door. We'll make sure he stays there."

Mycroft blew a column of smoke down between them. "Good," he remarked. He flicked the cigarette with the end of his thumb. "Once again, inspector, I find myself apologising for the inconvenience you've been caused."

"And once again, Mycroft, I'll tell you it's fine. We've got Hutchinson in custody. Sherlock's saved six months of tracking him down again."

"Nonetheless. I fear that after eight years, Sherlock's methods are still rather more theatrical than you'd prefer."

Greg filled his lungs with smoke. "To be honest I'm used to his methods now. Chaos, confusion, then a bloody good result... no complaints from me."

"You are far too gracious. I'm not sure my brother deserves your generosity, inspector. Nor do I."

"Ha. You say it like I get nothing out of it."

"I imagine you'll be here for some time yet, will you?"

"Not really... we've got Hutchinson. That's all we needed. There's only so much forensics can pull from an open churchyard in a storm... don't think we'll even bother taping it off. Get Hutchinson charged in the morning."

"A relief for you, no doubt."

Greg smiled, taking a drag. "You can say that again."

Mycroft's mouth curved around his cigarette. He seemed to take a moment just to watch Greg, his cool grey eyes bright with some thought.

He looked good, smoking.

There was something about it: pristine three-piece suit and coat, cut-glass accent, a gleaming new Audi waiting just down the street for him - and a cigarette poised between his fingers. The look in his eye, as ever, suggested he was seeing far more than Greg knew.

The shiver that went down Greg's neck was nothing to do with the rain.

"With a nod to these foul conditions..." Mycroft said, and lowered his gaze to the cigarette's glowing red tip in the gloom. "I wonder if you'll allow me to make a more manifest gesture of gratitude. My flat happens to be close by. Perhaps you'd join me for a glass of scotch while I have your clothing dried - I have dressing robes that will fit you - and then a car of course, to take you home."

Greg's heart jumped.

"Are you sure?" The thought of getting warm and dry was the sweetest thing on earth right now. Doing so with Mycroft Holmes and a glass of scotch sealed the deal. "That's - really kind, Mycroft. Thanks. You're certain it's no trouble?"

"Not at all," Mycroft said. He tapped the ash from his cigarette outside the umbrella. "Rather seems the least I can do."

Greg smiled, feeling his stomach squeeze. "Have we really known each other eight years?"

Mycroft returned the cigarette to his mouth.

"Nine," he said, "in September."

 

*

 

In all likelihood, nothing would transpire.

If that were the case - and Mycroft believed very comfortably that it would be - the sight of Lestrade relaxing on his couch in a plush grey bathrobe was a pleasure enough on its own. The man's bright-eyed grin at the bottle of scotch was a further prize, and as they idled into conversation together, Mycroft contented himself that for an hour or so the attentions of Gregory Lestrade were his alone. It was a scenario he'd coveted for some time.

He wouldn't let thoughts of what could be spoil him for the reality of what was.

"I thought you had a house outside of London?" Lestrade said, as Mycroft seated himself in the leather armchair by the couch, crossing one leg over the other.

He took a sip of Glen Garioch.

"At times I'm required to work rather unaccommodating hours. Having a base in the city is convenient for me."

In truth, he'd taken to spending his evenings here lately - even without a reason to do so. Though small the flat was pleasingly modern in styling and perfectly well-equipped to suit his needs. He found its cleaner decor to be clarifying to his thoughts. He often slept better here, secure in the smallness of three rooms and a bathroom; the quiet had a close and cosy quality that was somewhat missing at the house. The Holmes family seat was impressive enough, but as Mycroft aged, it just felt rather sprawling.

"It's nice," Lestrade said, with a smile over his scotch. "Peaceful." He shifted on the couch, making himself more comfortable. Mycroft tried not to glance at the brief flash of muscular thigh offered by the dressing robe. "I've just moved out to Barking."

 _Mm, I know._ "Do you like it there?"

"It's alright." Lestrade took a sip of scotch. "Can't complain about the rent, anyway. I live above a fairly decent Indian restaurant too. Handy."

Mycroft smiled, watching him drink. "I imagine so."

"Not an Indian food man?"

"I, ah... tend to cook for myself." _Easier to monitor._ "The slippery slope ever beckons."

"D'you like cooking?"

"Mm. I find it very settling." Suspecting he should cap expectations immediately, Mycroft added, "I tend not to attempt anything overly elaborate."

"I have a thai green curry recipe I'll send you," Lestrade said, drinking, and his eyes were dark and bright in equal measure. "Better than any restaurant. You'll be sending me a thank you card."

"A recipe of your own devising?"

"Yep. I do a great beef stir fry, too."

Mycroft found himself intrigued. "I hadn't realised you cook, inspector."

"I suppose there's a lot of things we don't know about each other." Lestrade swirled his scotch glass, amused. "First proper conversation in eight years. And you know I'm fine with 'Greg', don't you?" His eyes glittered. "Seeing as I'm sitting here in your dressing gown, Mycroft, I think we're now on first name terms."

The four letters felt good in Mycroft's mouth. He held them for a moment, simply to have them to himself.

"Greg," he said.

Greg grinned and took a drink. "There we go. Cosy."

 

*

 

By the end of the second glass, Greg had started to wonder.

As Mycroft joined him on the couch for the third, he started to wonder even more.

"Highland Park," Mycroft explained, adding a generous amount to Greg's new glass. Greg watched the amber liquid rise. "Eighteen years old..."

"Blimey. Are we celebrating?"

Mycroft made a noise of amusement. "Good scotch and good company warrant their own celebration."

Greg felt his stomach twist, pleased. _I'm good company._ "Better shared," he remarked.

"Quite."

As Mycroft handed him the glass, their fingers brushed. Greg drank to cover the touch of heat across his face.

"You're way too kind, you know that? Still not sure what I've done to deserve this."

"I happen to have been in your debt for some time," Mycroft said. "I'm glad to get the chance to finally express my gratitude." As he sat back with his glass, he angled his body towards Greg to facilitate conversation. The first sip closed his eyes. "I hope you're not averse to a touch of toffee in your whiskeys."

 _Not when it makes you look like that._ Greg drank, shivering a little at the smoothness. "Shine a light."

"You approve?"

"Yeah. This is magnificent."

"Mm. An unfortunately drinkable blend."

"Don't let me get wasted on this, will you? I'll never live it down if I throw up in your posh flat."

Mycroft's quiet laugh deepened inside the glass, eyes closing again as he drank.

"You're quite safe in my hands," he assured Greg. "Moderation in everything."

Greg's pulse picked up a little.

In truth, Mycroft's hands were exactly where he wanted to be - and if he was reading things right here, he wasn't necessarily alone in that.

He'd had a suspicion for some years that Mycroft might be gay. Sherlock made comments sometimes - throwaway remarks, casually tossed out. There'd been enough suggestions for Mycroft's eye contact right now to feel like it had some weight behind it. Something in the conversation didn't just feel like two professional men trading pleasantries over scotch. Mycroft was enjoying his answers, drinking them, and the answers he gave Greg in reply were smooth and charming. They were sharing more than chat here. Mycroft had always stirred his blood - pretty suits and those searching grey eyes. Being the sole focus of them was starting to catch his breath. 

Drinking, doing his best to seem unaffected, Greg wondered if Mycroft knew about him - if he could see it, somehow. He hadn't been with another man since his twenties, but in this moment he felt like it was written across his skin for all to read. He wanted Mycroft to read it.

It wasn't the scotch. It was being alone together at last.

He hoped this was going where he thought it was going.

 

*

 

By the bottom of the third glass, Greg was fairly certain he was being coaxed towards a proposition.

As they drank, Mycroft was growing quietly bolder - sitting closer, his voice relaxing a little lower in his throat, his gaze now comfortable enough on Greg's face to flit now and then to his mouth. Mycroft was as careful as ever, watching him for any signs of unease but with eyes that were all swollen pupil. When conversation made it natural, he began to touch Greg - a brush of fingers on his arm, a nudge of his foot against Greg's knee as he rearranged himself on the sofa, at one point an almost fond removal of some unseen piece of lint from Greg's shoulder.

Greg let the touches land. He let them linger.

In playful mood, and now enjoying the game, he didn't yet return them. He kept his conversation easy and familiar, wondering at what point Mycroft would tip this from questioning into claiming. It felt good to be wanted. Mycroft guided conversation once or twice towards subjects where Greg could reveal previous male partners, if he wished to, but Greg didn't take the bait.

He didn't want this to be over.

It was too enjoyable to see it building - to feel the net slowly gathering around him. _Take a risk for me, pretty. Just a little more. I know you're close._

Finally, with their empty glasses side-by-side on the coffee table, and a shared awareness that a fourth would not be wise, Greg stretched a little in Mycroft's dressing gown. He settled against the back of the couch and let his eyes close, pretending to enjoy his own sleepiness for a moment.

He reached up to rub the side of his neck.

"Your sofa's far too comfortable," he murmured, and eased the neck of the dressing gown aside to reach his shoulder. _Look how relaxed I am, sweetheart. Look how easy it would be._ "Think m'a bit drunk, Mycroft..."

As he opened his eyes, he found Mycroft watching his fingertips on his neck. The expression of restrained longing was magnificent; Greg would cherish it forever.

After a moment, with a flicker of his gaze, Mycroft returned to his senses.

A decision crossed his eyes.

"I fear it might be later than we think," Mycroft said.

Greg held his gaze, breathing the words in his mind. _Take me, darlin'. All sleepy. All relaxed for you._

Mycroft visibly swallowed. "You're very welcome to sleep here, if you wish."

 

*

 

"Mhm? Maybe best... don't know if I could bear to leave, to be honest..."

 _God alive, those eyes._ Mycroft watched with a wave of arousal and agony as Greg bit at his lip, pulling it between his teeth, all swollen pupils and warm cheeks. He was so magnificently fuckable Mycroft wanted to expire.

"You're still too kind," Greg murmured, gazing at him. He was almost liquidly relaxed against the couch, bare-skinned beneath the robe and he was pretty, and he was drunk, and as he started rubbing his neck again Mycroft felt his heart contract. "You honestly don't mind me curling up on your couch?"

_Oh god. Please do not be heterosexual. Please._

"Will you be comfortable on the couch?" Mycroft could only pray his voice was steadier than it felt. "Your neck seems somewhat stiff already."

Greg huffed; those beautiful brown eyes closed. "Just a little tense," he said. "Long day. Need someone to rub it for me."

Mycroft took a moment just to breathe. He kept his face as neutral as he could.

"Does she often have to rub your neck?" he asked.

Greg opened one eye, peering at him. Curiosity curled his mouth. "Who?"

"Your girlfriend," Mycroft replied, willing his heart to slow down.

Greg's eyes glittered. "I don't have a girlfriend."

"No?" _Lord, please don't let this be cardiac arrest. Not now._ "You haven't a partner?"

"No." Greg seemed to be gazing at his mouth. "M'single."

Mycroft's heart squeezed. "You - haven't a boyfriend?"

Amusement sparkled in Greg's gaze.

"Still single," he murmured. He reached for the sash of the dressing robe, slipping it open with a thumb. Mycroft's pulse hit the ceiling. "Haven't had a boyfriend in years."

Before Mycroft could think, he'd brushed the dressing robe open. The grey fabric eased back from his body, offering to Mycroft's widening eyes a sudden wealth of softly-tanned skin, chest and stomach and thighs, his heavy cock half-hard already - and as Mycroft's mouth opened, Greg stretched slowly.

"Mycroft," he murmured. His eyes gleamed. "Get the fuck over here, will you?"

Mycroft didn't even notice himself move. He could only see those eyes - dark, soft, bedroom eyes - the lazy smile - the hand that reached up to take hold of his tie and pull him close.

As they kissed, Greg's fingers buried in his hair. He tasted of scotch and smoke. His mouth was soft to kiss, slow and hungry, rough with the tantalising stroke of stubble, and as he started pulling at Mycroft's clothes to get rid of them, all rational thought blitzed itself from Mycroft's mind. He couldn't breathe. This was happening, truly happening. 

He dragged Greg on top of him, shivering.

Greg grinned against his mouth. He slid open Mycroft's tie and started on the shirt collar beneath.

"Let's get you more comfortable, gorgeous..." he husked. "Get to know each other at last, mm?"

 

*

 

When some semblance of thought finally returned, it was two AM. They'd fucked to the point of exhaustion. Mycroft had come harder and for longer than he ever had in his life. The memory of Greg driving into him from behind would be distracting him from his work for weeks. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to get out of bed again. Every inch of his skin had been grasped, kissed and stroked; there were bite marks blotched in abundance across his neck and shoulders. He'd heard himself begging and pleading in terms which would have horrified any decent and upstanding member of society - and he'd been given every single thing he'd wanted.

As he laid upon Greg's chest in the darkness, feeling the man's softly slowing breaths beneath his cheek, Mycroft realised he was perfectly happy.

A gentle hand trailed down his back. He stirred, lifting his head.

Greg gazed at him from the pillow; his eyes were as smoky and warming as any scotch.

"Hey," he rumbled, grinning.

Mycroft's heart swelled against his ribs. "Hello..."

"You alright?" Greg began to stroke a lazy pattern across the small of Mycroft's back, a fond little loop round and round against his skin. There was rain drumming gently on the window again, heavy and soothing. _I shall sleep very well._  "Did I get a bit much?"

Mycroft's skin shivered in response. "Not in the least. It was wonderful, Greg. Truly."

"Yeah? M'glad..." Greg bit his lip, watching Mycroft as he thought. "Listen... I know you're a busy man. I know you're important. I don't have a clue how much spare time you get, but..."

He raised an eyebrow, his gaze hopeful.

"If you ever want some company... you and me both work hard. Busy lives. I know it gets stressful, people relying on you. Maybe we can blow off stress together." His eyes strayed to Mycroft's lips. "We could be friends."

A lot of the modern world was lost on Mycroft. He knew enough to recognise the slight weight that was placed on 'friends', and what it signified. The thought alone raised coils of heat within his stomach.

"You're... suggesting an arrangement between us?" he checked. The corner of Greg's mouth upturned.

"Something easy," he said. "Just casual, y'know. Keep it quiet." His hand slipped down, cupped Mycroft's arse and slowly squeezed. "Help each other out," he soothed.

Mycroft had never been pawed at in such a fashion in all his life.

He immediately wanted more.

"That sounds like it might be enjoyable." He brushed his fingers across Greg's cheek, still marvelling at the things they'd just done. "I'm unaccustomed to the etiquette of such an arrangement. You may have to enlighten me."

"S'fine. It's our arrangement. We'll make up the etiquette as we go along." Tilting his head, his pupils big, Greg kissed each of his fingertips in turn. "Let's start simple. If you get some free time, and you fancy some company, just text me. How's that sound?"

 _Sex with Gregory Lestrade,_ Mycroft thought. _A text message away._

It rather took his breath.

"As simple as that?" he said.

His heart fluttered at the grin he received.

"Things are better simple," Greg said. "Life's complicated enough on its own."

 _Lord knows that's true enough._ Mycroft smiled, enjoying the shine of his new friend's eyes.

"In this arrangement of ours," he asked, and watched the handsome mouth widen with humour, "would I now be permitted to kiss you?"

"When we're in bed, darlin', I'm yours." Greg winked. "Kiss me all you like. Wherever you like. Just don't be surprised if I kiss you back."

Mycroft's heart heaved.

As their lips met, Greg's arms wrapped tight around his waist. They rolled him over onto his back, deep into the pillows with a flump. Mycroft squirmed. His breath caught as Greg's tongue slipped inside his mouth.

Shivering with happiness, he closed his eyes.

 


	2. With Enthusiasm

_How to phrase this?_

Mycroft brushed his thumb along the edge of his phone, gazing down at the message window.

The evening's traffic had slowed almost to a standstill; it felt like the world had stopped for him to make this decision. A long Monday had become a long week. Against all odds he'd somehow made it through to Friday. The rain started around lunchtime, had continued in droves ever since, and showed no intentions of stopping just yet.

Something about the sound of it, and the bright lights of London in the darkness, had brought a possibility drifting into his mind.

 _Memories,_ he supposed, recalling the drumming of rain against the window - Greg gently sucking the bite he'd just made at the base of Mycroft's tailbone - fingers stroking down his thighs, the voice as soft as smoke, murmuring to him over the sound of the rain, _'Do you like slow?'_

The low, delighted chuckle at his eager response.

_'Mm. Good. Me too.'_

Fisting his hands in the pillow. Arching his back.

Falling apart as Greg took it slow.

The memories were as clear and urgent as Mycroft could ever dream. He wanted it again - all of it. More. He'd spent this week explaining the simplest of concepts over and over to morons who still hadn't listened; next week would entail much of the same.

There was nothing in the world he wanted more in this moment than someone to make him whimper and beg.

 _'Help each other out',_ Lestrade had said.

Mycroft wasn't sure how much explanation was required, how much honesty was too blunt. _'I have had a horrendous week, and I was wondering if perhaps you would care to...'_

_'May I see you?'_

_'I can't quite stop thinking about you. May we meet?'_

The traffic still wasn't moving. Mycroft shifted in the back of the car, longing to loosen his tie just a little. He wanted to feel it pulled off him. He wanted to see it discarded without the slightest care over a lamp, over a chair, onto the floor.

_But how to ask?_

In the end, he realised the chances of Greg being made a better offer were only increasing by the minute - and while he himself was not a blunt man, he was accustomed to having what he wanted.

 _Subtlety,_ he thought. _Some degree of lead. A little seduction._

He woke his phone with a press of his thumb, returned to the message window, and typed:

 

[18:54] _Has your week been as intolerable as mine? MH_

 

Determined he wouldn't now monitor the window like a pining teenage girl, he locked the phone and slid it away inside his coat.

The car had advanced all of ten feet when his phone began to vibrate.

Mycroft retrieved it, keeping his expression cool. _Incoming Call from Greg Lestrade._

With a sweep of his tongue across his teeth, he answered the call and held it to his ear.

"Hello," he said, intrigued.

Greg's smile was audible in his voice. "Hi."

 

*

 

"Been a long shift... d'you mind if I shower?"

He walked into the flat as comfortably as if it were his own - sliding off his coat, hanging it on the back of the door, turning to Mycroft with that easy smile.

"Not at all," Mycroft said, endeavouring to keep the hitch in his pulse off his face. "I thought I might open the wine."

"Good idea. Save some for me, yeah?"

Mycroft found himself smiling, unable to resist that playful tone. "I make no promises."

Greg winked as he twisted open his topmost button. "Won't be long."

_Heaven help me._

He remembered where the bathroom was without prompting. He stepped inside and closed the door, leaving Mycroft to his thoughts. Soon, the sound of the shower could be heard.

Mycroft drank a first glass of wine fairly swiftly to settle his nerves. He settled on the couch to drink the second with more purpose, dealing as he did with a number of emails on his phone. It was hard to put the thought from his mind: _he is here. He is in my bathroom, showering, so he will feel clean and comfortable in bed with me._ Mycroft found himself keenly aware of his clothing, his skin beneath it, his socked feet up on the couch. Gregory Lestrade was here to spend the night with him - and had come not just willingly but with enthusiasm.

Unable to cope any longer, Mycroft downed his glass of wine. He removed his jacket and waistcoat, hanging both neatly in the bedroom. His tie was returned with care to its rack, his cufflinks to their box on the bedside cabinet.

Shirt-sleeves and braces, he poured himself another half glass. He sat on the bed to drink it, trying to ignore his own reflection in the wardrobe door. It was hard to know how to sit.

After a few minutes, the water cut in the shower.

The bathroom door opened. Glass at his lips, Mycroft lifted his eyes.

His lover for the night emerged. Greg had a towel slung low around his hips; his hair was wet and spiked, so touchable it evoked a little pain. He smiled as he found Mycroft waiting for him, cocking his hip against the door.

"Stubble or clean-shaven?" he asked, as if checking how Mycroft liked his steak.

Mycroft swept a drop of wine off his lips. He moved his glass to the bedside, stood without a word, and came to the bathroom door.

As he knelt down, he heard Greg inhale.

The towel was damp and soft against the tip of his nose. He nuzzled Greg into swelling beneath it, enough for him to tease with his mouth, wrapping his lips around the hardness through the fabric and enjoying the broken breathing it caused. He began to kiss Greg's stomach, a quiet and careful trailing of his lips, settling himself to this moment and what he was allowed. _Mine for the night. Mine to enjoy._

_I want to enjoy you._

As he rolled down the front of the towel, freeing Greg's heavy cock and balls to his mouth, shaky fingers combed through his hair.

"Fuck," he heard Greg whisper, and looked up.

Dark eyes gazed back at him, watching intently as he leant closer on his knees. He sat up a little, opened his mouth, and with his eyes on Greg's let his tongue swipe slowly from root to tip.

Greg's pupils blew.

 _"Fuck,"_ he breathed. With a shudder, he wrapped himself in a hand.

Obediently Mycroft parted his lips, letting Greg guide into his mouth. The hopeful little pull on the back of his head made his own cock throb. He closed his eyes, mouth now gorgeously full, and with a shiver of satisfaction began to suck.

Greg's sounds were intoxicating - soft groans and heady out-breaths, a distinct hitch as Mycroft softened his throat and took him in. The hand in Mycroft's hair was restless, coaxing; at length it cupped his jaw, wanting to hold him and fuck his mouth. He let Greg, shivering as the other hand tightened on his shoulder. Greg's short, tentative pushes deepened gradually into more urgent motions, the towel long lost to the floor, his moans breathy and stuttered. Mycroft reached around to hold his arse in both hands and steady him, guide the swaying of his hips.

Greg's hand clenched in his hair. _"F-Fuck - "_

Mycroft moaned low in his throat, wanting to soothe him, tell him - _I like that - I don't mind - you can do that -_ thick fingers tangling through his hair, shaking - holding him where he was needed -  _god almighty -_

"S-Shit," Greg gasped, suddenly grasping his shoulder. "Stop - stop, Mycroft, or I'll come - I-I'm not kidding - "

Mycroft almost wanted it. _Hot. Straight down my throat._ He'd spent the week trying to impose his authority over powerful men who couldn't process he was their intellectual superior in every way, didn't believe he knew better, thought he should be challenged and questioned in the name of their heaving egos. Now he wanted to serve someone who would appreciate him, reward him. He wanted to be shown without hesitation that he knew precisely what he was doing.

A single quiet thought stalled his mouth:  _Then what?_

Greg would be enough of a gentleman to reciprocate, no doubt - hands, mouth - and it would be a heavenly few minutes of relief.

_Then we shall watch a film, shall we? Discuss the news? Share an awkward cup of coffee?_

The thought Greg might dress and leave caused a flicker of distress to skitter through Mycroft's stomach.

He wanted Greg to stay. He wanted Greg to sleep here. He wanted to exhaust Greg, have Greg, lie him down and have all of him...

He wanted more than just relief. He wanted skin.

As he relaxed his mouth, and disengaged with care, he felt Greg exhale on a shudder. His fingers loosened out their grip in Mycroft's hair; they began to pet instead, calming himself with the comfort of stroking Mycroft.

It raised a quiet, half-quizzical smile on Mycroft's lips. He let it remain there, nuzzling against Greg's stomach. The laboured rise and fall of his breath was rather endearing.

"Y-You are way too good at that," Greg whispered to him, a half-laugh.

Mycroft hummed, pressing his cheek against the warm skin. "You are a highly satisfying subject," he said, his voice a little thick from the stretch of his throat. He glanced up and found a darkened gaze waiting for him, that impossibly handsome face flushed with pleasure. Mycroft's smile curved the corners of his mouth. "Mhm. I haven't supplied you with a drink yet... unforgivable of me."

Greg grinned, his eyes soft. He cupped Mycroft's jaw, stroking a thumb across his pinkened lips. "Why haven't we been doing this for eight years, Mycroft?"

"You hadn't yet sprawled on my couch," Mycroft reminded him, kissing the pad of his thumb, "and shamelessly offered me your cock."

Greg laughed; his gaze glittered. "Had to get a bit blatant, didn't I?" He eyed Mycroft, still caressing the seam of his lips. "Worked, though."

"Mm." Mycroft slipped Greg's thumb into his mouth for a moment, curling his tongue around it, and watched Greg bite into his lip in response. "I rather want you to fuck me, Greg. Not immediately. After some... coaxing, perhaps."

Greg's fingers slid back into his hair. Slowly they wrapped, holding, sending a shiver straight down Mycroft's spine. As he opened his eyes again, he found Greg smiling down at him - lazy, a little possessive.

It was the single most affecting look he'd ever received.

"You _have_ had a crap week, haven't you?" Greg soothed, and pulled gently. _Up._ Mycroft obeyed, rising from his knees. He was surprised to find himself trembling. "S'okay, sunshine. I can do coaxing. Have you got anywhere to be in the morning?"

As Greg began to undo his shirt buttons, Mycroft swallowed. "N-No," he breathed.

"Mhm. Good." Greg gazed at him, eyes as warm and deep as the bed just behind them. "Let's take our time, mm? No coming 'til midnight."

 _Oh, god._ "That - sounds - "

Greg's chuckle rumbled straight to Mycroft's cock. He curled his fingers in the loosened fabric of Mycroft's dress shirt, using it to pull him down.

"Kiss me," he whispered - and as Mycroft pushed him back against the door frame, he gasped. _"Christ_ \- Mycr-"

Whether Mycroft was to be granted the second half of his name or not, he never found out. It was lost against the gentle strike of his mouth, melted away between their tongues.

The only sounds for some time were hisses and pants, the crumple of fabric and snap of buttons as Greg struggled to undress him. More and more of their bare skin rubbed as they kissed. By the time they reached the bed, Mycroft was insensible as to where Greg ended and he began - they were blurring together in warmth and wet kisses, hands grasping and skin sliding and sounds so arousing they made him ache.

 _Stubble,_ he thought, knocking Greg onto his back and crawling on top of him, cradling the bastard's delicious bloody jaw, rasping his thumbs across the tantalising prickle there. _Quite definitely stubble._ He wanted his thighs and his neck to be red and raw by morning.

As they kissed Greg didn't hesitate to touch him, stroke him and pull him close; it made him feel safe to explore. _I want you here,_ at Greg's throat, nosing down onto his shoulder and biting as Greg's hands cupped his arse, spreading him; _I want you here,_ Greg's fingers wet with lube, teasing him, lazy swirls and tormenting presses and then finally pushing, breaching, filling, not enough, not thick enough, deep enough; _I want you here,_ hauled up on his knees in front of Greg, held back against Greg's chest and locked there with one strong arm, the other hand curled in a ring around his cock, fucking him through it, short and steady thrusts a little faster than his breathing, over and over and over, too good, _oh god, good, too good -_

"Yeah?" Greg breathed in his ear, and tugged at the lobe with his teeth.

Mycroft clenched his fingers around Greg's forearm, wrapped tight about his torso. He'd lost the power of speech some time ago. There were only whimpers now, pleas, panting as he was held here and kept upright and fucked. At first he'd strained against Greg's hold, but struggling felt too good. It took him too close to coming. All he could do now was relax into the cradle of Greg's arms and take the sensations being poured through him. _Taking you, full of you - yours - used - made to pant for you, made to moan for you -_

"Ready to come for me, sweetheart?" Greg soothed, flashing his tongue against Mycroft's neck, and quickened his grasp on his cock. "Come across the sheets for me, mm? Fall to pieces for me?"

_Oh god, fuck, please - come - yes -_

As it broke, and Mycroft writhed in the sharpest peaks of pleasure, panting close to panic with the sheer excess of sensation, he felt Greg lower him forwards - down onto the bed on all fours, hips up. Greg's hands grasped him there, took hold of him and began to fuck him hard and fast. Mycroft's whimpers kicked up into cries. He was still coming, panting and arching as Greg drove into him, ratcheting the pleasure higher and hotter and brighter in his blood. As the first searing wave began to subside, enough for Mycroft to feel himself dragging in a breath, Greg groaned and pushed deep and gripped him, one hand at his hip, the other on his shoulder, holding him still. The flood of heat took Mycroft's breath all over again; he twisted his hands into the sheets and groaned, aching with satisfaction in every nerve and vein. _God. Yes. Come in me. Come in me, hold me, keep me -_

In the middle of the night he woke to Greg's mouth, bathing his sleepy cock to hardness.

As he moaned, shivering, he found his leg had been arranged over Greg's shoulder. Fingertips were stroking at his entrance, toying through the wetness there.

"Mm hmm?" Greg hummed around his cock, thick-throated.

Mycroft's entire body ignited. "Fuck," he whispered. He drove his fingers through Greg's hair, shaking. "Y-Yes - " Two fingers pushed inside Mycroft's body, slow and firm in a single stroke. "Oh, fuck -  _yes...!"_

He came with Greg slowly padding at his prostate, his cock pulsing and twitching in Greg's mouth, swearing in gasps and arching against the bed as he convulsed with the force of it.

Insensible with pleasure, sated to the bone, the nuzzle of Greg's cock against his lips sent a shiver through his exhausted body. He relaxed his jaw and opened his mouth, letting Greg slide over his tongue. Greg knelt over him, gathered him close with a hand around the back of his neck, and held him there, keeping him where he was needed.

_God, hold me. Enjoy me._

In slow and shaking thrusts Greg rocking into his mouth, panting, breathing strained syllables of Mycroft's name. Mycroft murmured his encouragement, licking and bobbing; he could feel Greg coming close.

_I know you now. Know your tremors. Know your sounds._

_Know the change in your breath._

As Greg jerked, letting out a hoarse cry, Mycroft nuzzled deep into his groin. Greg held him, his moans tightening; bitterness flooded across the back of his tongue. Mycroft swallowed, breathing hard, his pulse driving hard and fast.  _Yes. God, yes. Give me it._

He licked Greg slowly back to earth.

After, somewhere in the haze, there came a kiss - long and lazy, the taste of Greg between them, fond fingers winding through his hair.

"Sleep, sunshine," Greg whispered to him. His voice seemed to swirl inside Mycroft's mind. "Tired you out..."

Mycroft shivered, stealing one last kiss.

"Mhm..." he agreed, sinking into sleep.

 

*

 

When Mycroft woke again, there was sunlight on the curtains - and no Greg in the bed beside him. Greg's clothes were not in the bathroom, nor was his coat hanging on the back of the door.

At last, just on the edge of fearing the worst, Mycroft thought to check his phone. He retrieved it blearily from his coat pocket, noting his 6% battery with a glance.

A text message waited for him.

 

**[05:46] Sorry gorgeous... I've been called out to an incident :| hope I didn't wake you sneaking out. had an amazing night. Looking forward to next time xx**

 

Mycroft smiled to himself slowly, rubbing the nape of his neck. He had a bite there he could feel - a deep one, dark. He believed he could guess in which moment it had been administered. The words, _'fuck me up, you're so tight...'_ had prefaced it, if he was right.

 

[08:14] _Quite alright. Crime waits for no man. MH x_

[08:15] _I had a very enjoyable evening too... I await this promised 'next time'. MH x_

 

A response had arrived by the time he stepped out of the shower. He read it, wrapping himself in the towel Greg had used last night.

 

**[08:21] just let me know. Glad to serve the british nation ;) xxx**

 

"Rogue..." Mycroft murmured, sitting down on the end of the bed.

 

[08:22] _Rogue. Enjoy the rest of your weekend. MH x_

**[08:24] you too. Hope its a better week for you... if it isnt, just give me a ring ;) xxx**

 


	3. Cliveden

It had been one of those days.

If Greg was honest, it had been one of those weeks.

Even switching on the light now felt like too much. Instead he sat down upon his sofa in the dark, still wearing his coat with his Sainsburys bag slumped at his side. The milk needed to be put away. He needed to cook some food. He needed to psyche himself up to do something other than just lie here like a discarded rag doll, listening to the leaden thump of perpetual R&B coming through the ceiling.

Still staring at his empty TV screen, Greg reached into the bag at his side.

He found his Benson and Hedges, worked one free and lit it.

As he smoked, he slumped into his thoughts.

_Friday, at least. Can get a lot done this weekend. Tidy, for a start. Get those last few boxes unpacked... do some bloody ironing. Gym. Maybe._

_Proper breakfast,_ he decided, rolling the cigarette against his lip. _Set me up right._ It had been a strange and exhausting week, but a decent weekend would fix that - and it would start with a productive Friday night. As soon as he had the strength to stand up, he'd get changed - get the oven on - get a drink, get the radio going, get some washing up done. The place was a state but if he put his mind to it, it'd be fine before he went to bed.

Twenty minutes later, as Greg lit a third cigarette and contemplated a takeaway, he suspected he was losing this battle.

He sighed, watching the cigarette light.

_Give yourself a break, man. Had a shit week._

Ian Starr was back on the streets. All the work to convict him last time, and he'd only been put away for two years. He scrubbed up well for his court appearances. He told judges he was a family man, worried about the impact jail time would have on his kids. When inside, he behaved himself and didn't give the prison officers any trouble - but every time he got back out, he morphed back into the violent thug who took any tiny insult as cause for revenge. He'd bricked in Greg's windows just before he went away.

Two years had passed very quickly.

With Starr back on the streets, all the other troublemakers were on high alert, ready to kick off at a moment's notice. Any excuse would do. They'd had seven violent assaults in Peckham this week alone.

Realising he'd drifted into work mode, Greg took a deep drag on his cigarette.

_Right. I can't sit here all night._

_Get up, you knackered old bastard. No wonder you're still single._

_Sort of single._

Greg blew smoke between his lips, looking down at his lap. _Don't kid yourself, mate. You might've gotten laid a few times. You're still single._

He wondered how Mycroft was.

He glanced dimly towards his kitchen, rubbing the cigarette. His cramped flat had a grand total of two rooms: a bathroom, and a jumbled all-in-one room of everything else, with the kitchen at one end and the bed at the other. The couch and the TV filled up the space in the middle.

This wasn't the sort of place you brought a guest.

_Right?_

The cigarette smoked between Greg's fingers, ignored. He supposed if he was setting up a romantic meal, trying to wine and dine someone, it would be mortifying to bring them here. There wasn't room to swing a cat. It looked like cheap student accommodation.

_But... he knows me. Knows about the divorce._

_Maybe he'd..._

The thought ached in Greg's chest - his tired old bones, his crap and pointless week, and Ian Starr back on the streets of Ealing. He wanted to stop thinking about it. It would be nice to feel skin. He'd love to come with someone - with Mycroft. Those gorgeous moans, the flash of his beautiful grey eyes. Mycroft was eager and appreciative in bed, and he knew how to make Greg forget.

_I'd kill for eager and appreciative right now._

Biting his lip, Greg slid a hand into his pocket for his phone. He pulled it out, scrolled through his contacts in the dark, and paused with his thumb over the name.

Mycroft might still be at work. Besides, he tended to text these private things. He seemed more comfortable that way.

Greg keyed the message in, telling himself not to get his hopes up. This was very last minute. 'Yes' wasn't guaranteed at all.

 

**[20:09] hey... :) How was your week? xx**

 

He pressed send.

The determination not to sit here on tenterhooks, waiting for a reply, forced him up off the sofa at last. He took off his coat and his tie, put the milk away in the fridge, then set the kettle boiling for a cup of coffee.

As he poured hot water into the mug, he caught the flash of his phone lighting up beside his keys. It started to vibrate.

_Incoming Call from Mycroft Holmes._

Dropping the kettle back on its base, Greg snatched for the phone. He let it ring three more times, nervous to seem too keen, then answered.

"Hi," he said, hardly daring to hope.

Mycroft's voice curled in his ear. "Hello." There came the distinctive click of a lighter, a flash of flame, then a sleek metal snap as it was shut. "To answer your question... my week has been inordinately dull."

_Good._

"Yeah? Mine too." It hadn't been anything of the sort - it had been a pain in the arse, frankly - but it seemed like things might be about to get a lot better. Greg found himself rubbing the side of his neck. "Busy weekend ahead?"

"Not exactly busy. More of the same, most likely." Mycroft was smoking somewhere; he didn't sound as if he was inside. Greg couldn't hear traffic, though. "And yours?"

_God. Please. Get round here._

"Nothing on," said Greg. He bit the corner of his lip, deciding just to go for it. It had worked well so far with Mycroft. "Wondered if you'd like to meet up, maybe. Have a drink, order some food. Chill together."

He heard Mycroft take a slow drag on his cigarette.

"When?" Mycroft asked.

Greg's heart tightened. "Now, if you like. M'free."

"I'm - afraid I'm occupied this evening. I imagine I'll be busy for another two hours or so."

"Two hours is fine," said Greg, immediately relieved. _I can get the place clean in two hours. Change the sheets. Have a shower and a shave._ "Come round afterwards... my place. I'll make you breakfast in the morning."

Mycroft let out an almost fond huff of air; Greg had a feeling he'd just made the man smile.

"Rather sweet of you, but... there are - certain restrictions on my security. I have to be careful where I sleep."

"I'll come to you then," Greg said. He was realising more and more with every word how much he wanted this - he wanted Mycroft pressed against him, moaning softly, that gorgeous neck to run his mouth along, those elegant hands gripping at his body. He needed it. "How about I meet you at your flat? Ten o'clock?"

Mycroft took another drag.

"You've caught me out of London," he said. "I - would like to see you, Greg. Very much. I'm just not certain I could put you through this amount of inconvenience."

Greg hesitated, his heart falling. "How far out of London?"

"An hour or so. I'm attending a function at a hotel near Berkshire. I'd planned to spend the night here."

 _Christ, Lestrade. Go for it._ "Alone?"

"Mm." Mycroft paused. "Though I suppose these things can be flexible."

Greg breathed in. He prepared the words in his mouth, wishing his heart could beat a little quieter. "Could be lonely," he noted. _Christ, am I really planning to drive to...?_ "Big hotel bed on your own... more fun with a friend. Settle you after your function."

He heard Mycroft shiver. "I... think I would enjoy that."

Greg squeezed his phone. "I'll make sure you do."

"Mm." Mycroft was silent for a moment. "I'll send a driver," he said. Greg felt his pulse kick. "Can you be ready in twenty minutes?"

"Yeah. Sure. What should I...?"

"Whatever you would need for an overnight stay. I hadn't anticipated needing - certain supplies. If you were able to bring those with you, it would save an uncomfortable conversation with the staff at the front desk."

Greg was already opening his wardrobe, rummaging through the bottom for a backpack.

"Sure," he said, phone pinned against his ear. _The good lube,_ he thought. _The tingle stuff._ "Can do."

"You're certain this isn't inconvenient?"

"No, sunshine. Whole weekend's wide open. It'll be nice to see you."

He could almost hear Mycroft smile.

"I should be able to make my escape around half ten," Mycroft said. "I'll - leave my room key at Reception for you. It's a junior suite in the east wing."

 _Bloody hell. Sounds posh._ "East wing. Right."

"Make yourself comfortable. If you'd like to order any room service, do feel free... I'll join you as soon as I'm able."

"Right." As he threw spare boxer shorts into the backpack, Greg bit his lip. "Mycroft?"

"Yes?"

Greg grinned. "Looking forward to it."

He heard Mycroft shiver again. "Yes. Yes, I am too..." A playful note entered his voice. "A pity you won't be able to make me breakfast."

 _God._ "I'll order it for you."

"Mhm. Modern chivalry."

Greg's grin spread from ear-to-ear. "See you soon. Enjoy the function."

 _"À tout à l’heure,"_ Mycroft murmured, and hung up.

Twenty minutes later, a sleek black car cruised to a halt outside Greg's flat. A suited driver got out and held the door for him.

As Greg settled into the leather seat, dropping his backpack into the footwell, he had a feeling he was about to have his mind blown.

 

*

 

**[20:45] so... where exactly am I going? xx**

 

It took a few minutes for Mycroft to see the text. When he did, he began to reply at once.

Greg smiled to himself in the darkness, watching the little bubble bob.

 

[20:56] _Cliveden. Once the home of Nancy Astor. MH x_

 

Oblivious, Greg googled.

"Holy shit," he whispered, scrolling through image search. He snagged one which looked like the hotel's own website, and let his jaw slowly drop as he browsed. Out of interest, he navigated his way to the junior suites. The price per night made his kidneys shrink back into his body and whimper; the photographs showed rooms that looked like works of art, king-size beds, ornate lamps and oil paintings, baths of marble with vases of fresh white flowers.

His phone buzzed in his hand.

 

[21:01] _Meets with your approval? MH x_

 

Greg caught himself grinning as he replied.

 

**[21:02] Bit posher than my usual weekends away. have to smuggle me in through the kitchens... up to mr holmes's bed... xxx**

[21:03] _Would be rather fitting. Cliveden has an illustrious history of scandal. 'Nothing ordinary ever happened here, nor could it.' MH x_

**[21:04] just reading about it... profumo affair huh? what'll they call ours? ;) xxx**

[21:05] _Ours shan't bring the government to its knees I hope. Nor are you the mistress of a well-known Russian spy. MH x_

**[21:05] had me checked out, have you? ;) xxx**

[21:06] _Naturally. MH x_

 

This was all taking an interesting turn, Greg thought. Summoned in secret to a posh country hotel at night - black limos and junior suites - it made Greg smile, recalling he'd imagined Mycroft joining him in his poky flat for a takeaway.

 

**[21:07] so this 'function' you've abandoned so you can text me... xxx**

[21:07] _I have earned a cigarette break. You're good enough to entertain me. MH x_

**[21:07] posh evening do, is it? xxx**

[21:08] _Not a mini quiche in sight. MH x_

**[21:08] black tie? :) xxx**

[21:09] _Mm. MH x_

**[21:09] are you in a tux? :D show me xxx**

[21:09] _You'll have the pleasure of a private viewing when I return to the room. MH x_

**[21:10] show me now... I want a picture xxx**

 

A couple of minutes went by. Greg watched the other cars driving with them on the motorway, wondering where they were all going - if any of them were going somewhere as exciting as him. He doubted it.

The message, when it arrived, had a picture attached.

Grinning, Greg opened it at once.

The expression was almost playfully defiant - one eyebrow slightly arched, those grey eyes bright with amusement. Behind Mycroft, the sweeping grounds of a country estate could be seen. There was an enormous classical fountain, illuminated in the darkness; the lawns stretched far out of sight.

Greg's stomach ached at the sight of the dinner jacket and neat black bow-tie. They were nearly begging to be hauled off and crumpled. He wanted to see them thrown across an antique lamp.

 

[21:14] _Will that sate your appetite for now? MH xx_

**[21:15] for now. Want you... want to scruff you up... xxx**

[21:15] _'Scruff me up'? MH xx_

**[21:15] wreck you... make a mess of you... xxx**

[21:16] _An intriguing notion. Though my absence from the reception will be noted soon. Perhaps you can hold that particular thought. MH xx_

**[21:16] go shmooze posh thing. Think about me. xxx**

 

The message was seen; no reply came.

Grinning, Greg pocketed his phone. He rested back in the seat, closed his eyes, and told himself this would make a hell of a memory when he was eighty.

The car at last pulled off the M40, continuing through the darkness along winding hedge-lined country lanes. They reached the walled outskirts of an estate. At the gate, Mycroft's driver had a discreet word with a uniformed security guard, showing a piece of ID that Greg didn't get a chance to glimpse. They were waved through onto a long straight drive between an avenue of slender trees, leafless in the autumn night.

The house ahead was magnificent.

Greg had never really laid eyes on a place like this. The wealthy in London were already pretty good at showing off their money; out here, they _really_ pulled out all the stops. He wanted to laugh for bringing a backpack with his boxers and a toothbrush. There probably hadn't been a backpack through those doors in history.

_Christ... and I'm here for..._

A rich man's company after hours. Here to make a politician feel like an animal again. Here to strip away a dinner jacket and a bowtie, and tend to the bare skin beneath it.

_Fuck, this is getting kinda fun..._

Right now, somewhere in this building, powerful people were hobnobbing with Mycroft Holmes over champagne. They were trading witticisms, maybe trying to impress him. Meanwhile, his bit-of-rough was being bowed through the front doors by a porter, approaching the desk with an old backpack slung over his shoulder and a smile.

"Hi..." Greg said to the young woman on duty, whose name badge identified her as _Lauren - Guest Services._ He didn't know if you were meant to say 'hi' in a place like this. 'Good evening' would probably have been better. It was a bit late now. "I'm, ah... staying with a friend here tonight. Said he left his key at the desk for me."

If she sensed what this was, or what Greg meant by 'friend', she didn't show it. "Certainly. What's your name, please?"

"It's Lestrade. Greg. Room's probably under 'Holmes'."

She checked a list beneath the desk, then smiled.

"Yes, we have a key for Lestrade. You're in the Orkney suite." She collected it from the board for him, and handed it over. "Would you like a hand with your bags at all?"

Greg indicated his backpack with a guilty grin. "Should be fine," he said. "Can you tell I've never been before?"

Her eyes sparkled. "Enjoy your stay, sir. The lift's over there, if you require - your room is on the first floor."

"Great. Thanks."

Halfway to the stairs, Greg had a thought.

He returned to the desk.

"Hi, sorry - me again - d'you have a menu for room service at all? Thanks. Starving."

 

*

 

Mycroft's room had his name in a little white card on the door, written in script with a fountain pen. _Mr. M. Holmes. Orkney Suite._

Biting his lip, Greg let himself inside.

It looked like his imagining of a minor royal's bedroom - winged armchairs and an antique bureau, a bed with four posts, a tastefully hideous carpet, and floor-to-ceiling windows now tucked away behind heavy drapes. The lamps were lit, and it was quiet and warm. A glance in the bathroom revealed Mycroft's toiletries; there was an empty leather suitcase beneath the huge bed.

Greg's things all fit in a single bedside drawer. He left his backpack in the wardrobe, hung his coat behind the door, then sprawled out on the couch with the room service menu. _This is feeling more like a Friday night._ Alongside some rather fancier options, he was delighted to spot fish and chips. He doubted it would come wrapped in newspaper with a wooden fork, but decided to order it anyway. The staff member on the phone told him it would be added to the bill. He supposed Mycroft _had_ offered - and having seen what Mycroft was paying for the room, Greg doubted the cost of an evening meal would make much difference.

The food arrived within fifteen minutes. The girl who delivered it was friendly and polite, laid everything out for Greg near the fireplace, and asked if he'd like anything else. She then wished him a good evening and left.

As he ate, Greg wondered what it was like to work in one of these places.

The staff must have seen some incredible things. Rich people had dirty laundry like everyone else; it just looked all the dirtier for the whiteness of the sheets. Mycroft couldn't be the first male guest who'd had a 'friend' rock up late at night.

There was probably a prostitute in this building right now, if not several of them. Though they'd have been hired as escorts, their trade was prostitution. They were just very _good_ prostitutes. There'd be mistresses and illicit lovers sleeping on every single floor of this hotel.

And Greg was one of them.

He knew he shouldn't like it.

As he considered the alternative evening he'd be having - Chinese food in front of the TV, kidding himself he'd do the ironing in a minute - he decided life was for living. You didn't get a chance like this everyday.

With his plate cleared, he checked the time on his phone.

Ten past ten.

Mycroft wouldn't be long.

 _Long enough for a shower,_ Greg thought. _Might be nice to get clean._ He'd had a long day - and hopefully there was still a long night ahead.

As he slipped beneath the water, he couldn't help but groan. _Christ, this is the life._ The spray was powerful enough to dig into his muscles; it felt like it was blasting the day's grime off his skin. Squinting, spitting, he reached for one of Mycroft's pale green bottles and studied the label. _Aveda Rosemary Mint Shampoo._ Lathering it through his hair, he realised why it seemed fondly familiar - he'd smelt it before in Mycroft's hair. The shower gel, too, brought a smile to his face. _Penhaligon's._ The label had two royal coats-of-arms on it. Soaping it into his skin, Greg breathed in the scent of Mycroft on the steam and shivered.

It was going to be a good night.

When he was out of the shower, drying himself off on a fluffy white towel, he considered his clothing strewn about the floor.

_Like wrapping a present you're about to give someone._

He left it all where it was. He gave his hair a last scrub with the towel, draped it across the heated rail, then settled into bed.

The thing was as deep and satisfying as a hot bath. Greg sank into it, shuddering. He kicked the covers off to bare his body to the lamplit gloom. He sprawled across the mattress diagonally and stretched, tipping his head back against the pillows, wondering how much this bed must cost. Just being in it was bloody erotic.

_No wonder rich people are over-sexed._

The poor things probably couldn't help it, riddled with lust every time they tried to lay their heads down. Greg was sure the hotel had chosen these beds primarily to provide a good night's sleep - but they _must_ know they were good beds to fuck in. Surely they knew. It was clean and big and the sheets felt smooth against his back, the mattress thick and snowy white beneath him. This bed needed to be spoiled. It made Greg want to be fucked, slowly.

_I could be ironing right now. Staring at the TV._

Instead he was here, half-hard just from being in this bed.

There came a quiet rattling sound across the room.

As Greg realised what it was, his pulse leapt.

The door opened, emitting a brief sweep of light - and the room's rightful owner. Mycroft entered the room quite calmly, noting at once the empty plate sitting near the fire.

His casual glance then found Greg in the bed.

He stopped dead, one hand still on the door.

Greg's mouth curved.

"Hey..." he murmured.

Mycroft seemed to take a moment to reassemble the various fragments of his brain. He then realised he was still holding the door, and duly closed it.

In the cosy quiet, he approached the end of the bed. The selfie hadn't done the tuxedo justice. He looked like a bloody Bond villain - like he'd spent the night consorting with royalty.

Greg had never felt so sinfully naked in all his life.

He let Mycroft look at him, enjoying the slow passage of those cool grey eyes across his skin.

Mycroft met his gaze; the ghost of a smile lifted his mouth. "You've made yourself comfortable, I see."

 _Fuck... your voice. Your authority voice._ "How was the function?"

"Increasingly difficult to care about," Mycroft replied.

Greg smiled, his heart tightening.

"Yeah?" he murmured. He stretched for the benefit of Mycroft's eyes. "How come?"

Mycroft's gaze glittered, watching him stir.

"I found myself oddly distracted," he said, and reached up to his bowtie. He eased the black silk apart. "Not that you've had any part in that, I'm sure."

Greg watched as Mycroft undid the top button of his shirt, leaving the tie loose around his neck.

"Never been fucked by someone still wearing a tuxedo," he said.

"Remiss of you." Mycroft undid another button, exposing just a little more of those gorgeous freckled collarbones. "I have never left a reception early to be scruffed up."

Greg grinned. "Does that mean I'm special?"

"I think we can say with some certainty that you are." Mycroft reached for his left cuff, quietly removing the brushed silver stud as he spoke. "Did you bring...?"

"Mm. In the bedside."

"Excellent." With a slight smile, Mycroft smelled the air. "You've made use of my toiletries."

Greg eased himself to sit up.

"I really am getting comfortable, aren't I?" he said as he made his way down the bed, kneeling. He reached for Mycroft's lapels. "D'you regret bringing me yet?"

The corner of Mycroft's mouth curled, watching him come closer. "Not in the least."

As Greg nuzzled beneath his lover's jaw, inhaling to draw Mycroft's scent into his lungs, he felt a shiver of satisfaction course down his back.  _Fuck, yes. There you are._

Mycroft ignored his hopeful kisses, busy with the other cuff. "You seemed eager to meet tonight," he murmured.

Greg nosed beneath the open collar of his shirt, enjoying the male warmth of his neck.

"Had a crap week," he admitted, as Mycroft pocketed the cufflinks. "Got thinking about you... about your body."

"Sweet of you." As Mycroft's hands finally encircled his waist, wrapping slowly around him, Greg felt his heart breathe in and groan. "I'd have thought you'd be drowning in offers of company, for a Friday night."

Something warm, and rather soft, stirred in the pit of Greg's stomach.

"M'not, as it happens." He slid his hands beneath Mycroft's dinner jacket, enjoying the curve of his back in a silk waistcoat. "Even if I was, wouldn't matter... still want to be with you."

He nuzzled into the crook of Mycroft's neck, stroking slowly with his mouth. His skin felt smooth against Greg's lips. He tasted just like Greg remembered, clean and pale and soft. It made his heart kick.

"Is that alright?" he whispered.

Mycroft's hands flexed with longing on his back. He took a moment to respond.

"Mm. Quite alright."

 _Want your ego massaged a little, darlin'? We can do that._ Greg breathed in, letting Mycroft's smell wash through his senses. This was starting to feel like a cuddle.

"Come lie down," he murmured, his voice soft. "I'll do whatever you want. Whatever would feel good right now. Just let me run my hands all over you."

Mycroft hesitated, pressing his cheek to Greg's. "May I kiss you?"

Greg lifted his head from Mycroft's neck. He met his lover's eyes, wondering what that expression was - that quietness.

He tried a smile, brushing his fingers over Mycroft's cheek.

"Sure you can," he murmured. "S'what I'm here for."

Mycroft's gaze flickered to his lips. "It would be... within the terms of our agreement."

Greg let his smile warm. "I think so... don't you?" He ran his thumb beneath Mycroft's mouth, watching. "Yours for the weekend, gorgeous. I want to touch. I want to kiss and fuck. While we're here, have me... m'yours."

A possibility occurred.

"Is there something you want?" Greg murmuring, reaching up. He stroked his lips over Mycroft's mouth, and felt a shiver pass through the body in his arms. Mycroft kissed him back, grey eyes fluttering shut; their tongues brushed, slow. "Tell me," Greg whispered between kisses.

Mycroft breathed in.

"Rub my shoulders," he said. He took a quiet kiss from Greg's lips. "Settle me with your mouth. Let me do the same for you. Sleep in my arms."

Greg's heart swelled. He took Mycroft's jaw into his hands. "You had a bad week, too."

Mycroft held his gaze; his expression gave nothing away.

After a moment he said,

"I'm glad you contacted me."

Greg bit his lip. He reached for the buttons of Mycroft's shirt. "Me too, sunshine... c'mere. Let's get you settled."

 


	4. Social Elite

When Greg woke, Mycroft was leaning over him, dotting gentle kisses at his temple. Muffled sunlight softened the world around them. Greg shivered,  lifting his head to the fond little touches; he reached with hope for Mycroft's body.

As his fingertips encountered fabric, his heart tightened in confusion.

"I need to show myself at a breakfast gathering," Mycroft murmured with regret against his temple. "It would be considered rude not to attend."

_God._

_It's over already._

"Oh... no, I - I get it..." Greg pressed a quiet kiss to Mycroft's jaw. "Can I - drop the key at reception for you? K-Kinda need a shower."

He felt Mycroft's mouth curve against his forehead.

"I shouldn't be much more than an hour," Mycroft said. "I'd - hoped you might still be here when I return."

Greg's heart stirred. He bit his lip. "Yeah?"

"After breakfast, I've nothing to occupy me until dinner." Mycroft paused, stroking another kiss across his forehead. "Perhaps you'd be kind enough."

"To - occupy you?"

"Mhm."

Greg curled his fingers around the lapels of Mycroft's waistcoat. Shivering, he pulled him down into the pillows to kiss.

As their tongues stroked, mouths soft and open, Mycroft's gentle weight pressed him down against the bed. He could feel his heart drumming with urgency, wanting to get to Mycroft. He arched up, breath shallowing, and the long kiss deepened - soft and intimate sounds, slow hearts beating quietly, together, appreciative hands gliding over Greg's bare body.

At last, with palpable reluctance, Mycroft pulled away.

"Later," he murmured, even as Greg shivered and reached for him. He placed two fingers to Greg's mouth. "I can't present myself at breakfast with stubble rash and an erection. Later."

Greg's heart strained. He laid back in the mess of the sheets, briefly closing his eyes. "Bring me back a pastry."

"I'll have breakfast sent up for you. Sleep now." Mycroft planted a single kiss between his eyes, feather-soft and fond. "Restore your strength."

Greg's chest rose. They'd been awake long past midnight, fucking and playing. Mycroft had taken him from behind over the bed, twisting gently at a handful of his hair. He'd had Mycroft on his back so they could kiss. The night had been a blur of switching from top to bottom without a breath, soothing whichever of them most needed to be fucked in that moment.

He wouldn't forget it as long as he lived.

"Enjoy breakfast," he said. He caught Mycroft by the tie. "Mnh. One more. Please."

Mycroft's eyes glittered; the fractional curve of his mouth tugged at the bottom of Greg's stomach. He caught hold of Greg's wrists, lifted them either side of his head, and held them there as he reached down for one last kiss.

Greg's pulse skipped, skittered as their mouths stroked.

He nipped hopefully at Mycroft's lower lip; Mycroft smirked against his mouth, letting him go.

"Sleep," he breathed, holding Greg down as he rose out of reach. Returned to his proper height, he pressed the back of his hand against his lips. "Do not leave."

 _Holy hell._ Greg tipped his head back into the pillows, his pulse quick and deep. "Not sure I could even make it to the door... how're you managing?"

"I've had several rounds of practice," Mycroft said, retrieving his jacket from the end of the bed, "at walking with grace after you've spent the night ruining me... I've gotten rather good at it." He pulled the jacket around his shoulders, smoothing his tie. "Now I have to share granola with the country's social elite, while attempting not to picture you lying here."

Greg fanned his toes outside the rumpled covers.

"Say hi to everybody for me," he said.

Mycroft huffed, a smile playing across his mouth. "I shall."

As he left, Greg watched him go.

He then shifted onto his side, wincing a little, and pulled the covers up around his cheek.

 

*

 

When Greg woke again, it was to a quiet knocking on the door. He lifted his head, wondering if he'd dreamed the sound; the door opened.

"Room service?"

"Oh - sure." Greg rubbed a hand across his eyes, bleary. "C'mon in."

A uniformed young man entered the room with a tray. "Would you like breakfast laid out for you, sir, or in bed?"

 _When in Rome._ "Will you think I'm a lazy sod if I have it in bed?"

"Not in the least." The young man brought the tray across the room. He leant down, straightened the covers with care, and laid the tray upon them. As he poured Greg's coffee out, he said, "Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?"

Greg found himself marvelling at the friendly smile. _Like I'm not lying here naked under these covers. Like that's not another man's name on the door. Like you can't see the fucking wreck we've made of the bed._

He wondered what Mycroft had said to them - who they'd been asked to take breakfast to.

_'My partner'?_

_'My friend'?_

_'The gentleman in my room'?_

"I'm fine," Greg said, and returned the smile. "Thanks."

The young man bowed, the very picture of discretion; he excused himself from the room.

In the cosy silence that followed, Greg reached for his cup of coffee. He drank it slowly, letting his thoughts swirl.

Mycroft was downstairs, networking over croissants with Greg's kisses still painted across his skin.

_Do they know, sunshine? Can they tell? Are your eyes a little brighter today, sunshine?_

Greg knew this shouldn't be so intoxicating - but it was. Mycroft had wanted him to be here right now. He could have told Greg he wasn't available this weekend, asked to meet up some other time. Instead he wanted Greg kept secret in his room, sleeping off their night of incredible fucking with the staff to tend to his needs.

He'd rubbed Mycroft's back for him last night. Laid him down on the bed, listened to his moans grow low and soft. Melted away all his edges.

It was strange to think London was an hour away. It felt an awful lot further than that. This felt like he was spending the weekend in Mycroft's world, seeing things Mycroft didn't usually share - and it must have taken strange courage to bring Greg here. Evening functions, junior suites and breakfast in a three-piece suit. There could be royalty sitting downstairs. Mycroft was trusting Greg's discretion.

It was a little bit magnificent.

_Christ, I'm a mistress._

He was the person still there when the dinner jacket came off. He was the person still there after breakfast, relaxing in bed after their long night of sex. He was the person who knelt on the bed behind Mycroft and rubbed his stiff shoulders, kissed the side of his neck, felt Mycroft shiver and start to relax.

Sipping his coffee, Greg closed his eyes.

This felt good.

Whatever 'this' was.

 

*

 

It was almost impossible to concentrate at breakfast - and harder still to care. As Mycroft entered the room, he realised he'd been fundamentally altered overnight. These were the same faces he'd bid good evening to less than ten hours ago; they felt like total strangers. He let the front of his mind move him on autopilot to his seat, smiling and greeting and offering a genial good morning to every face which turned his way, as the back of his thoughts took him where he truly wanted to be - upstairs, leaning low over a bed.

He'd spent the night inside Greg. They'd spent it kissing and fucking, wearing each other into weakness. Mycroft's thighs and back now ached with every movement.

He felt as if every pair of eyes in the room could see his new state of being - he was surely moving differently, sitting differently, radiating the sort of animal satisfaction which only came from being fucked so hard no other sensation existed.

Greg had been pleading with him by the end.

 _'Please, please - please let me come...'_ Biting into Mycroft's shoulder, panting, shaking as Mycroft ground into his prostate. _'Mycroft - f-fuck - '_

Mycroft watched, barely aware, as a waitress poured him his coffee.

_'Say hi to everybody for me.'_

He supposed indiscretion was fitting for Cliveden. It was almost tradition. This was strictly a social weekend, not business, which meant what Mycroft did after hours was his own concern. Whether he spent it with green tea and a book on the Thames, or on top of an incredibly bad man, didn't matter.

If only he could now stop thinking about the bad man in question.

Even as his mouth made small talk over grapefruit, his brain was in bed with Greg. He was turning Greg gently onto his back, kissing his soft and sleepy mouth, pushing back the covers to slide his hands over that warm and willing skin - following the path of his hands with his lips - wrapping them around Greg's gorgeous cock, feeling him stretch and sigh and thrust up in frustration and _grrrroan..._

"Sir?"

Mycroft blinked, inclining his head over his shoulder. "Yes?"

"Would you care for toast, sir?"

"Ah - no. Thank you."

The waitress nodded, moving on her way.

Mycroft reached for his coffee. It was half-cold.

Over pastries, he was asked by those near him regarding his plans for the day. He told them with suitable regret a number of small matters had arisen which required his attention. He received understanding smiles in response. His dedication to work was so widely-known that even its shadow was unassailable. They would all picture him in his suite, working in silence at his laptop until dinner.

He'd be doing nothing of the sort. His assistant could handle all matters of urgency today.

He'd be handling Greg.

It was so animal it left Mycroft feeling like he couldn't really hear any other voices. He'd be upstairs with Greg, touching his skin, the curtains half-closed and the bed a smoking wreckage around them. They'd be wrapped around each other, kissing; he'd have Greg inside him, coaxing him to fall apart. They'd be listening to each other make the most intimate sounds a human could make. He wanted Greg to plead with him again.

He was having breakfast at Cliveden with the country's elite, and all he wanted was to return upstairs.

The... _romance_ of it was rather heady.

He wondered if any of them would believe it. Mycroft's reputation was starchly asexual; the pleasures of the flesh laid outside his concerns. He was surrounded by men and women who knew him as an exemplary counsellor and an unerring intellect. His advice was sought by every single governing force in the country. Those who dared dismiss his counsel learned very quickly why it was usually heeded. If Mycroft was anything, it was a mind.

This morning, he was a body.

He was one of two bodies - joined even now, floors apart. He wasn't sitting here trying to follow some inane conversation. He was still in bed, still inside Greg, watching him pant with pleasure at the slow grinding of their bodies, watching his mouth open. Beneath his suit, Mycroft's skin ached to be touched.

He could feel Greg aching, too. Greg was upstairs thinking of him, wanting him. Lying in sheets warm with the scent of their sex, eating breakfast Mycroft had arranged, waiting for him to return.

It was a beguiling thought.

_Lord god... what has happened to me?_

The answer, of course, was simple. Greg Lestrade had happened. He was happening even now - and seemed barely to have started.

With a blink, Mycroft realised Viscount Brackley was topping up his coffee unasked, obliging him now to stay and drink the thing.

Mentally consigning the man to oblivion, Mycroft thanked him with a tight smile.

 

*

 

It was twenty minutes more before he could excuse himself. His associates looked forward to seeing him at dinner; they hoped he had a productive day. Mycroft did his best to seem gracious and not desperate to leave as he said his goodbyes, then made his way with muttering relief to the lift.

As he approached the suite, his pulse began to climb.

_Is he still there?_

It made no sense that Greg would leave, and the thought was irrational - it gripped Mycroft in its claws all the same. He didn't know what to expect any more than he had last night, when he'd let himself in and discovered Greg laid out like... dear god, there was no comparison - laid out in that deliciously easy bliss, bare skin and dark hair, his eyes soft and lazy. This moment felt like that one had. _God almighty. Don't be gone._

Fitting the key into the lock, Mycroft noted the shake in his hand. He pushed the observation aside. The click caught his breath. He stepped through the door with a whisper-soft creak, and told himself it would not matter if Greg had gone.

Relaxing in the bay window overlooking the grounds, naked but for a navy robe, his lover glanced up from a coffee cup.

His smile knocked Mycroft's heart out of rhythm.

With a last sip Greg put the coffee aside, eased up from the seat and came across the room, his footsteps soft upon the carpet.

Mycroft's heart gripped. He watched Greg come closer, strangely unable to speak.

Reaching him, Greg smiled and settled close, stroking his fingers through Mycroft's hair. Mycroft's eyes fluttered shut as if on command. Greg's lips pressed at once his own. He tasted of coffee and smoke and sex, and he kissed Mycroft just as he had last night, gentle and firm at once, his tongue coaxing into Mycroft's mouth.

Reeling, all too aware of the tremble in his arms, Mycroft hugged Greg close.

"I'm sorry that took a while," he whispered between kisses. His breath shortened. "I was - rather desperate to get away, but - "

"Shhh..." The sound seemed to melt through his senses. Greg's hands idled down his back, coaxing it on its way, brushing lazy kisses across his mouth. "S'fine, sunshine... gave me plenty of time to think..."

 _Oh god._ "T-Think?"

Greg cupped Mycroft's arse through his trousers and squeezed, stubble brushing against Mycroft's jaw.

"When do I have to give you back?" he husked, and pressed his teeth into Mycroft's ear, and Mycroft had never heard anything so rousing in all his life. He quivered, plying his fingers into Greg's shoulder blades beneath the robe.

"Dinner is at seven." He hesitated, swallowing as Greg nibbled at his ear. "I'll - need to..."

"S'okay, posh thing. I'll give you time to put yourself back together again." Greg's tongue flashed behind his ear, a hot flicker of sensation. "You'll be pretty for your party."

He began to undo the buttons of Mycroft's waistcoat.

"Greg..." Dizzy joy lapped through Mycroft's senses. "Greg, I... I've never done - something like this. I want you to know."

Greg's thickening cock nuzzled against his thigh.

"Don't worry," he murmured. Another button fell to his advances. "I know, love."

By the time they were in bed, Mycroft had forgotten every face he'd seen in the dining room. He'd forgotten every face he'd ever met. The sensation of Greg's hand in the middle of his back, pressing him gently into the pillows, as the other soothed with intent between his thighs, made him want to stay in this room as long as he lived. He never wanted to see anyone but Greg again.

He spread his legs, trembling as Greg leant low. Greg nuzzled into the back of his neck.

"Can I use my mouth on you?" he murmured. His fingers brushed the sore, stretched knot of Mycroft's muscle, stroking in a little coaxing circle. "Here?"

Mycroft buried his face in the pillow. _Christ._ His hips lifted of their own volition. "Y-Yes. Yes."

Greg kissed what felt like a new bite at the side of his neck, taking hold of a pillow.

"Have you ever come from this?" he asked as he slid the pillow beneath Mycroft's hips, nuzzling between his shoulder blades.

"N-No."

Greg huffed, pleased. "Good," he murmured, his voice honeyed, and began to wind his way down Mycroft's spine, dotting chaste and gentle kisses in a trail. "Don't have to worry about tipping you over the edge..."

As he parted Mycroft's arse with his hands, delivering a gentle bite to the pad of flesh, Mycroft twisted his fingers in the pillow and regretted not updating his will. It was Sherlock's fault he'd met Greg Lestrade; it was Sherlock's fault they'd shared a cigarette beneath an umbrella. His wretched brother wouldn't be getting a penny.

A soft, wet stripe then slid from his tailbone all the way to his balls, and he forgot he'd ever had a brother.

 

*

 

Just after one PM, a request from the Orkney Suite reached its way to Guest Services.

A short but determined argument immediately broke out over who should have the honour. It was ended by the reluctant concession it was Katie's birthday tomorrow, _and_ she'd been missed off the rota on the night Meghan Markle was here. She could do it.

"Really? With Mr Holmes in the Orkney Suite?"

"Yep. He arrived late last night, and apparently he's _gorgeous._ Big brown eyes and silver hair. Lauren checked him in."

"Who took him breakfast?"

"Matthew did, and he's not been the same since."

"God."

"Says he was still in bed, not wearing a stitch, and the sheets were everywhere. Clothes all over the floor. They clearly didn't sleep for long."

"I thought Mr Holmes in the Orkney Suite was meant to be stuck-up?"

"He is now," someone said.

There came an outbreak of tittering.

With a smirk, Katie's team leader handed her the silver tray. She'd chosen an especially fancy one to complement the items requested.

"There you go," she said. "Then get back here with details, young lady. _Copious_ details. Happy birthday."

Katie carried the tray from the kitchens, took the lift in the east wing to the first floor, and carefully smothered her smile as she approached the Orkney Suite.

With an expression of glass-like neutrality, she knocked upon the door.

"Room service?" she called.

It was usually safe to enter a room with food. Most guests, having ordered, would be waiting for it, and would be happy for you just to come in.

The significant delay between her knock and the door being answered told her she'd made the right choice staying out here.

The door finally opened, and there he was - the mythical _He_ being kept secret in Mr Holmes's room. Lauren and Matthew had been completely right. The man was an absolute feast, with a grin as bright as a chandelier and eyes that were deep and dark and warm, his grey hair soft and pillow-scruffed. He was wearing boxer shorts, one of the hotel's robes, and a delightfully subtle shimmer of sweat across his torso. His chest hair had clearly just had hands raked through it; the room behind him was still dark, the curtains drawn.

Seeing Katie and her tray, he gave her a gorgeously guilty grin.

"Thanks," he said. He took the jar of honey and the wooden dipper. "You're a star."

It was the policy of Guest Services, on completion of a request, to ask if a guest required anything else they could help with.

Katie simply smiled. She had a feeling they were all set.

"You're welcome, sir," she said, folding the tray beneath her arm. She bowed. "Good afternoon."

Upon returning to the kitchens, flapping, she had the tray whisked away from her and was seated at once in a chair.

They gathered round.

Her team leader guided a large cup of tea into her hands.

"Leave nothing out," she said.

 


	5. Sweet

"What caused your frustrating week?" Mycroft asked.

Greg drew deeply on the cigarette, letting it fill his lungs. Smoke curled from his mouth as he answered.

"A bloke I put away two years ago is back on the streets." He offered the cigarette back; it was taken out of sight by slender fingers. "He's called Ian Starr. Two years has gone quick."

They were sitting in the bay window, watching the sun set over the grounds. Greg wasn't sure why he liked the matching navy gowns so much. He felt like he was wrapped up in Mycroft's skin somehow, perfectly at peace, their hair still damp from the shower and both too sated to move - a comfortable slump of limbs and skin and navy cotton.

Mycroft blew out a plume of smoke, perfectly formed.

"Peckham?" he checked.

Amazed, Greg tilted his head back onto Mycroft's shoulder. "How d'you know?"

"I believe I recall the case from the newspapers," Mycroft said. He handed Greg the cigarette. "Criminal damage and arson, wasn't it?"

Greg took a drag.

"Attempted murder," he muttered, "if we'd got the witnesses to testify... or if we'd been able to prove Starr intimidated them."

He settled more comfortably in Mycroft's arms.

"Torched a shop," he said. "Belonged to someone who'd given evidence against his cousin in another case. He claimed he didn't know the family lived on the premises. Pleaded his drinking problems and a difficult childhood."

"I assume no-one was hurt?"

"Sheer luck. The wife was up in the night with their baby, saw people hanging around across the street... smelled smoke and got them all out of there..."

Greg watched a bird crest over the distant river.

"Starr's been in prison more times than he can count on both hands," he said, and flicked the ash from their cigarette into a nearby coffee cup. "Always short sentences. He's smart enough to draw the line - or, if he crosses it, he gets someone else's hands dirty - but men like him agitate the rest. They get all the other nutters riled up and ready to go."

"Hence your headache," Mycroft murmured, brushing back his hair.

"Mhm." Greg took another drag, leaning into the touch. "He bricked in my windows just before he went away."

Mycroft paused.

"You were involved in his conviction?"

"Second time I've put him away." Greg handed over the cigarette. "First time was for battering his pregnant wife. England lost to Uruguay."

He felt Mycroft inhale. The plume of smoke blew out in silence.

"I'm sorry to hear you're dealing with this man."

_Concerned for me._

"Mhm. Me too." Greg took the cigarette as Mycroft offered it. "What about you?" he asked around it, shifting - there was a distinct ache settling across his lower back. He didn't need to think hard for how he'd caused it. "What was your crap week about?"

"Nothing nearly as worthy of comment." Mycroft smoothed back his hair, placing a quiet kiss upon his temple. "Morons who consult me for guidance, choose not to follow it, then have the nerve to expect my assistance in clearing it up..."

Greg smiled, rubbing the cigarette with his thumb. "Any morons I'd recognise?"

Mycroft huffed.

"If there _were,"_ he said, with a look of gentle warning, "it would be inadvisable of me to identify them to you... in this place, most of all."

"Cliveden?"

"Mm. An illustrious history of indiscretion - one to which I shan't be contributing."

"I thought you'd had me checked out?" Greg said, casting up a grin. "Made sure I'm not some cheeky foreign spy?"

Mycroft admired him for a moment, amused. His eyes were bright.

"A suitable amount of security checks have been conducted," he said. "You've been assessed as posing no significant risk. My discretion in this moment is for _your_ benefit, I assure you."

Greg's heart grew. He bit his lip. "Yeah?"

"Mm. The less you know of my work, the more protected you are from it. The matters I deal with can be intrusive and rather wide-reaching... I wouldn't wish for anything to affect you."

Greg returned the cigarette to his mouth.

"Sounds like you're a dangerous man to go to bed with," he said.

He watched Mycroft's eyes flash as he dragged on it. "A little late for you to discover, I'm afraid."

Smiling, Greg blew smoke towards their feet.

"Don't worry, sunshine. I don't frighten easy." He shifted to lie sideways against Mycroft's chest, leaning up to kiss his jaw. "Probably wouldn't understand a word of what you do, even if you told me."

"You do yourself a disservice," Mycroft murmured. His arm curled protectively around Greg's waist. "A highly capable officer."

It was hard to dampen the rush of pleasure this caused. "Sweet about me," Greg said. He dragged on the cigarette as they gazed out towards the river together, watching the colours deepen in the sky. Darkness couldn't be far away. "What time is it?"

Mycroft stirred, reaching into the pocket of his dressing gown. He checked his phone and sighed.

"Perhaps time I should think about getting ready," he said.

_Time I'll have to leave._

Greg cushioned his head against Mycroft's heart, listening to it beat for a minute. Mycroft gave no sign of preparing to move him.

"Are you back in your tuxedo?" Greg asked.

"Mm. Formal dinner."

"Going late?"

"Fairly late, yes." Mycroft's fingers played across the back of his neck, stirring gently through the shorter hairs. "These... weekends always tire me. I dislike large gatherings. Turning down the invitation isn't a possibility, but I usually reach Sunday evening without having had a single meaningful conversation in two days... seems rather a waste of my time."

"You're - here tomorrow, too? More shmoozing?"

"There's a luncheon, then everyone will depart." Mycroft passed him the cigarette. "Feel free to finish."

Greg used the time it took to gather his courage. He flicked the stub into the coffee with a soft hiss, told himself not asking guaranteed a no, and reached up to Mycroft's cheek.

"Hey," he said, softly, as Mycroft's arms tightened around his middle. He nuzzled against Mycroft's jaw. "Say if you want some space. I don't wanna outstay my welcome... but - if you wanted..."

Mycroft's fingers curled in the back of his hair.

"Stay. Spend another night here. Please."

_Fuck. Fuck yes._

"You sure?" Greg rubbed his stubble along Mycroft's jaw. "Promise me I'm not driving you mad."

Mycroft drew back a little to study him, his expression soft. He kissed Greg's mouth; his fingers curled around Greg's cheek.

"What makes you believe you are irritating me?" he asked, every sound a stroke of his lips. Greg's pulse reeled. He returned the gentle kiss, his eyes closing over.

"I - know you're kinda private," he said. Their closeness settled his voice into a whisper. "I know you're important. Busy."

"Hardly 'busy'..." Mycroft stroked his thumb across Greg's lower lip, tracing its curve. "And, to be candid... rather glad of the company. I'd very much like you to stay, Greg."

_God._

_God, this is getting -_

Greg pressed his lips to Mycroft's, buying a moment to settle his pulse. As they kissed, Mycroft's fingers slid into his hair, stroking it onto end; little shivers of sensation poured over Greg's scalp.

_Of course it's getting comfy. Spent a night and a day fucking like animals. How else am I going to be feeling?_

_And why wouldn't he want me to stay?_

_Who'd turn down sex like this?_

Mycroft's hands eased down his back, feeling the lines of his body through the dressing gown - enjoying him, flexing just above his hips. Mycroft liked to hold him there when he was riding. Greg liked to be held there, guided and shown. _'Please me,'_ the grip seemed to say. _'Give to me.'_

As their lips parted, their foreheads stayed together. They shared each other's breath for a moment.

Greg's heart hadn't settled at all.

"I feel rather guilty," Mycroft confessed at last, his voice tight. "Leaving you all evening without company."

"S'fine... I'll catch up on sleep." Greg stole a gentle kiss. "F'I'm honest, my back's hurting a little. Not as young as I was. Would your political authority extend to the staff fetching me some painkillers?"

Mycroft smiled, laying a warm hand flat at the base of Greg's tailbone.

"Of course," he said. A thought seemed to cross his mind; he glanced at Greg's mouth, then into his eyes. "A massage might be more effective than painkillers."

Greg nearly laughed.

"I'll get one booked when I'm back in London," he said, grinning. "Think I'm due a pedicure, too."

Mycroft's eyes glittered.

"There is a spa on site," he explained. Greg felt his eyebrows quirk in response. "If you're planning to rest while I'm occupied... you might as well rest with professional assistance."

"Really?" Greg hadn't had a professional massage in his life. The weeks and months passed too quickly for things like that. "I mean - you sure?"

"Mm. It's included in the weekend, and I shan't be making use of it. "

_Christ._

Humour bubbled in Greg's chest. He couldn't help it.

"Sending me off to be pampered," he said, with another grin. He watched Mycroft's mouth curve in response. "Spoiled while you're at dinner. People'll talk."

Mycroft's fingers brushed across his cheek.

"Unless you're announcing yourself to all and sundry as my honoured guest," he said, "you shouldn't attract any undue attention. And I wouldn't want you to be bored." He leant up, pressing his lips to Greg's. "I'll arrange something for you, darling."

 _Is this normal?_ Greg thought.

_Do all rich people do this for their...?_

He caught Mycroft's mouth with his own.

_Holy fuck._

_Holy fuck, I don't care._

 

*

 

Evening functions were good money, and they were easy - especially after the meal was done. Slowly carrying a tray of champagne became rather relaxing after a while. The guests were happy to treat you like a part of the furniture, and Katie never minded at all. There were worse ways to pay yourself through university. The steady trickle of celebrity anecdotes to impress friends was a nice bonus, too.

There wasn't anyone really famous this weekend - a few dimly recognisable politicians, but no-one worth boasting about.

The only person who meant much to her tonight was Mr Holmes.

He was doing a good job of pretending he'd not spent the day beneath a silver-haired demi-god. Katie supposed he must be in politics, too. Only a politician could keep _that_ off their face. He didn't seem particularly absorbed in any of his conversations - people were approaching _him,_ not the other way around, and he had a glass of champagne in his hand because it was mandatory, not because he wanted it. He'd kept the same one going all night. While perfectly polite to everyone who put themselves before him, when they walked away he seemed to forget they existed at once, quietly checking his watch.

 _Wishing it would go faster,_ she thought.

Then, why wouldn't he? She'd wish the time away, too. At least fifteen people had asked her for the story today. She wasn't tired of telling it yet, nowhere near, and was trying not to picture it in her mind whenever she passed Mr Holmes with her tray.

She almost wondered how he'd managed that.

He didn't seem particularly warm or fun-loving - while his boyfriend was clearly a great deal of both.

_Opposites attract?_

Maybe he softened up when they were alone, she thought. Maybe his boyfriend liked being the one person who meant something to him.

It was cute as hell, whatever it was.

As the last two glasses of champagne were taken from Katie's tray, not long after nine PM, she found herself glad of a chance to walk to the kitchens. This lot would be hobnobbing past midnight, most likely - anything after twelve o'clock was paid at time-and-a-half - and it would be nice to check her texts.

She was almost out of the room when she caught the flash of a hand, beckoning her. She responded through instinct and stepped towards it, even before she recognised Mr Holmes.

"Might I ask you to deliver a message for me?" he said, removing a business card and a sleek silver pen from inside his jacket.

 _Interesting._ "Yes, sir. Of course."

The card was almost entirely white - on one side, a discreet set of initials were marked in pale grey, _M.H.,_ and on the other side a telephone number and e-mail address. He jotted quickly around his initials, his eyes low, then handed it to her between his fingers with the message facing downwards.

"To the spa," he said, "to my - ... to Gregory Lestrade. He's having a treatment there. If finished, he'll have returned to the Orkney Suite."

_Oh my god._

_'Gregory'._

"Of course, sir." Katie placed the card on her tray face down - a discreet promise it would remain so until it reached its recipient - then curtseyed and left the function suite.

The spa was reached fastest by heading out of the main entrance and into the other wing. The cover of the star-lit night gave Katie the chance to slyly flip the card, glancing down at the cramped handwriting.

 

 _Hoping to excuse myself from the endless tedium of small talk by ten._ _  
_ _Are you being looked after? x_

 

Katie slipped through the door to the spa, biting into her lip. After a moment's delay, a receptionist appeared from the back room. Spotting Katie, the other girl's manner relaxed at once.

"Are you working that function?" the receptionist said, settling on her elbows for gossip. She grinned. "You _definitely_ picked the wrong shift, girl. You wouldn't believe the guy we've got in here tonight."

Katie beamed.

"I would," she said. "I've got a message from his boyfriend. Where is he?"

 

*

 

Mr Holmes's Gregory was in with Simon. The man was as straight as a ruler, professional beyond reproach, and frankly couldn't imagine the blessing the universe had bestowed upon him. He glanced up as Katie entered the room, his hands unfaltering in their slow motions along his client's oiled back.

"I have a message for Mr Lestrade," Katie explained, holding up the tray.

Simon nodded, unphased, and continued his work.

Dazed, Mr Lestrade raised his head from the massage bed. His eyes were fogged with Simon's expertise; as they found Katie, recognition flickered across his face. He smiled.

"H'lo," he said to her.

"Good evening, sir. I have a message for you." Katie came over, and held out the tray for him.

His mouth twitched with a smile. He slid the card from the tray, turned it over and read it.

As his smile widened, Katie's heart squeezed.

"Don't suppose you'd take a reply back for me, would you?" he asked her, his eyes dark and bright at once.

Without breaking his focus, Simon slipped a pen from his top pocket and handed it to Katie.

She held the tray steady for Mr Lestrade to add to the business card, discreetly reading his message upside down.

 

 _Like a king. Can't believe this place. Had a swim and sauna. Now massage. Think my bones have melted._  
_Should be finished at ten._ _  
Don't expect anything athletic off me later... xxx_

 

"Thanks, doll," he said, flipping the card over with a wink.

Katie nodded. As she backed out of the room, she watched him lay his handsome head back down. Simon returned to kneading his lower back.

Mr Holmes's Gregory groaned, shifting.

The door swung gently shut.

 

*

 

When she re-entered the function suite, Gregory's Mr Holmes was in reluctant conversation with a Conservative MP Katie half-recognised from the papers. She stayed discreetly nearby, collecting empty glasses while she waited, listening to Mr Holmes grow increasingly perfunctory in his responses. The MP grew increasingly oblivious.

After almost fifteen minutes, Mr Holmes's continued glances in her direction gave her courage.

She approached the two of them with care.

"Forgive me, Mr Holmes," she murmured. "I have an urgent message for you from Reception?"

"Ah - yes, thank you. Do excuse me," Mycroft added to the MP curtly, as he indicated for Katie to follow him to a corner of the room. "I've been waiting for this. Good evening."

Katie followed him, glass-faced.

When they were out of earshot, and the MP had slumped off in search of someone else to listen to him, Mycroft lowered his voice.

"Thank you." He took the card, turning it coolly between his fingers. He read it with an impressive lack of reaction and retrieved his pen from inside his jacket. "You don't mind?"

"No, sir. Not at all."

Katie kept her eyes to herself as he wrote.

As she crossed the car park again, she took a quiet peak.

 

 _Slow and idle will more than suffice._ _  
_ _I'll come to you at ten. x_

 

*

 

 _Perhaps a little risky,_ Mycroft thought, as he opened the glass doors of the Cliveden Spa just after ten PM. A clean, subtle perfume registered in his senses. _They will all be occupied at the function._ It had been a long evening, with a maddening lack of Greg - and a maddening excess of other people. He was very glad to reach its end.

As he crossed the gleaming white reception area and approached the desk, a young lady appeared from a backroom. She smiled as brightly as if it were mid-morning, not late into the evening.

"Good evening, sir," she said. "May I help you?"

Mycroft's brain made a snap decision on how to phrase this. He spoke with neutral calm, presenting what seemed like the cleanest way to enquire.

"My partner is here having a massage," he said. The young woman could hardly be expected to hear _'my sexual companion'._ "I wondered if it had concluded."

"I think they're nearly done," she said, smiling, and indicated the double doors behind her desk. "Do go through, sir. It's the door at the end."

Only as Mycroft approached the treatment room did it occur to him he hadn't specified his name, or who he was. He hoped this meant Greg was the only client of the spa this evening. Otherwise he might be about to invite himself into someone else's wife's massage.

Before he reached the door, it opened and a gentleman emerged, cleaning oil from his hands and forearms with a towel. He gave Mycroft a faint, questioning smile - a polite and non-verbal, _can I help?_

"Greg Lestrade?" Mycroft checked, and received a nod.

"Just grounding," the masseuse said. "Go on in." He held the door for Mycroft, admitting him to a candle-lit space where music lulled from unseen speakers. The distinctive aroma of clary sage drifted on the air.

Greg was settled beneath a towel on the massage bed, looking for all the world as if he were asleep.

Mycroft stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

"Greg?"

A slight stir indicated he'd been heard. "Mycr'ff?"

Trying not to smile, Mycroft quietly approached the table. He moved into Greg's line of sight, and found a pair of deeply-shining brown eyes gazing up at him, glittering with warmth. Greg looked as relaxed as if he could be decanted into a travel mug.

"I understand you're 'grounding'," Mycroft murmured, with amusement.

"Tryin'. Bit floaty." Greg smiled slowly, admiring him in his dinner jacket. "How's s'function?"

The sleepy slur was rather affecting.

"Tiresome," Mycroft admitted. He reached out to stroke through Greg's hair, enjoying the soft grey scruff between his fingertips. Greg's eyes closed in pleasure. "Heavens... you _are_ floaty, aren't you? I suspect even 'slow and idle' might have been an ambitious request..."

"Nnh... s'fine, s'nshine. Juss gimme a minute."

"Have you eaten?"

"Mm hmm." Greg tilted his head to kiss Mycroft's fingers. Mycroft curled them out of reach, playful, stroking across his cheek instead; Greg made a little sound of protest. "Cruel," he mumbled. "Teasin' me."

He brushed his thumb across Greg's lower lip.

_You are divine... quite, quite divine._

As Greg gently licked his thumb, Mycroft felt his stomach tighten. He found himself lost for a moment, watching Greg lap at him in some soft, quiet submission, nuzzling his hand as if it were the source of all his joy in the world.

Curious, he curled his fingers around Greg's jaw. He eased his thumb into his mouth. Greg shivered, pliantly lifting his head. His tongue swept around Mycroft's thumb.

"Fuck my mouth," he whispered around it, his voice thick. "When r'upstairs. Please."

Mycroft's right eyebrow lifted of its own volition. He took a moment to cool the responsive surge of heat in his stomach, cradling Greg's head in his hand.

"That necessitates you transporting yourself up the stairs," he said in a murmur. "And you currently seem a little incapable."

"S'your fault," Greg protested, his eyes fogged and soft. He kissed Mycroft's thumb. "Posh massage. Too relaxin'."

_If you drop one more G, you delectable man, I shan't be held accountable for my actions._

"How is your back?" Mycroft asked him, fondly.

Greg's eyes glittered. "Sweet about me," he remarked. He stretched a little, inhaling slowly. "S'fine. Feels good."

"I'm glad." As the masseuse re-entered the room, carrying Greg's clothes, Mycroft discreetly let go of his jaw. "You'll sleep well tonight, at least."

 

*

 

It felt strange to be dressed. As they made their way across Reception together, Greg imagined he wouldn't be staying this way for long. He found himself hyper-aware of his shirt against his skin; he felt almost too relaxed to be out in public, the air hazy around him.

Mycroft stayed by his side, discreetly distant as they approached the lift. Greg could almost feel him scanning their surroundings.

He relaxed slightly as the doors closed, the two of them alone again.

Slyly, Greg eased a little closer; a small smile curved Mycroft's mouth. He wrapped his arm around Greg's waist and let him lean, the lift rumbling around them in the quiet.

"Thank you," Greg murmured. "Spoiling me. I feel amazing."

Mycroft tilted his head, pressing a discreet kiss to the crown of Greg's head. "You're quite welcome."

"D'you have to go for shmoozy breakfast in the morning?"

"No, thank God. Merely shmoozy luncheon."

Greg's soul glowed quietly. "Mhm. Breakfast with me. In bed."

"Rogue." Mycroft lowered his head, nipping gently at the tip of Greg's ear. The lift bumped to a stop. "Quite certain I can arrange such a - "

The doors opened.

The appearance of a couple on the other side made Mycroft stiffen. He let go of Greg, straightening.

"Clarence," he said.

The balding gentleman outside the lift looked no less horrified than Mycroft. He let go of the giggling and glamorous young woman at his side, and hitched a panicked smile into place.

"Mycroft," he said, his eyes wide. The two shook hands over the threshold; Greg glanced at the young woman, who bit into her raspberry-red lower lip and met nobody's gaze. "H-How are you, old boy?"

"Very well," Mycroft said, stiffly. "Thank you."

Clarence stole a quick glance at Greg, swallowing.

"I hadn't realised you knew Cliveden," he said to Mycroft.

"I'm... here at Hortensia Campbell's invite." Mycroft allowed something to hang in the air for a moment. "Rather kind of her."

Clarence paled. "That's - _this_ weekend, is it?" he said. "Here?"

"Mm." Mycroft tilted his head. "Haven't responded to you about the Blackburn contract yet, have I? I must prioritise that."

Greg had the distinct impression he was now watching a negotiation unfold. Clarence held Mycroft's gaze for a moment, comprehending - then slowly gave a nod.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, that - would be very gentlemanly of you, old boy. No hurry." He hesitated, glancing at his blushing companion. "Well, we should be going."

"Mm." Mycroft placed a hand on Greg's back, nudging him quietly and firmly forwards. "Good evening."

Greg waited until the lift doors had closed and they were alone in the corridor.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "Was that a bit awkward?"

Mycroft took a moment to respond.

"A little," he said. "That was Clarence Talbot. That was not Clarence Talbot's wife."

 _Yikes. 'An illustrious history of indiscretion' indeed._ "Have I gotten you in trouble?" Greg asked.

Mycroft exhaled. He wrapped his arm around Greg again, holding him close as they walked.

"No," he murmured. "No, you - shouldn't concern yourself. I doubt he'll say anything."

As they reached the door of their suite, hoping to lift the heavy quiet, Greg suggested,

"If he asks, just tell him I'm your cousin."

Mycroft made a noise of reluctant amusement, fitting the key in the lock. "Nuzzling a gentleman in a lift is somehow made better by familial connection?"

"We're a close family."

With a huff, Mycroft opened the door. "He has more to lose," he said, and Greg had the impression the reassurance was more for Mycroft than for him. "I'm sure my private life will hold little interest for anyone."

The room had been cleaned in their absence; there were fresh sheets on the bed. Greg was delighted to spot a small box of chocolates awaiting them, and picked them up from the pillow with a grin.

"This place really _is_ posh," he noted, glancing over at Mycroft as he undid his bowtie. "You never get free chocolates in Premier Inn."

Mycroft joined him beside the bed, surveying the box with interest.

"Hardly standard," he said. "Even for a place like Cliveden..."

"Really?"

"Mm. Seems rather touching."

"Maybe we're popular," Greg suggested, untying the ribbon. "Have you been handing out generous tips?"

"No more than customary." Mycroft rested his chin on Greg's shoulder. "Perhaps guest services are attempting to abate your sweet tooth," he said, watching as Greg opened the box. "Lest you ruin another set of their sheets with honey."

Greg grinned, picking up the printed menu inside.

"They'll have seen worse," he said, and settled back in Mycroft's embrace as he considered the selection. "Mhm. White praline."

"That does sound rather nice."

Greg rolled the chocolate free from its mould. He held it to his shoulder, and received a fond snort.

"Yours," Mycroft said.

Greg grinned. "There's two of them, Mycroft. Get it eaten."

Caving, Mycroft took a bite from the small chocolate heart. The small sound he made raised a flutter of interest deep in Greg's stomach.

"Mm. Yes, I confirm my theory of 'rather nice' rings true. You should have the second one immediately."

_God, I love the way you put things..._

"Come share the rest in bed with me," Greg murmured. He tilted his head, pressing his cheek to Mycroft's. "Lay me out a trail."

"A trail to where, precisely?"

 _You know exactly where._ Greg bit his lower lip, pulling it between his teeth.

"From your throat to your cock, love. I'll find my own way from there."

Mycroft's breath caught.

"Greg..." he whispered.

Greg smiled, placing the box on the bedside table. He turned in Mycroft's arms.

"'Slow and idle', mm?" He cupped Mycroft's jaw, looking deep into his eyes. "Think I can handle that."

Mycroft's throat tightened beneath his fingertips. He glanced down at Greg's mouth, his pupils growing.

As Greg pulled him down to kiss, he felt their pulses speed up as one.

They swayed back onto the bed.

 


	6. Too Much

A gentle knock stirred through Mycroft's focus.

He blinked slowly, his thoughts withdrawing from the report on the screen. Without a sound he put his laptop aside, slipped out of bed and smoothed his dressing robe, then moved through the darkened suite towards the door.

As he opened it, he discovered the young lady who'd kindly delivered a message for him last night. She had their breakfast on a tray, and a smile as bright as a songbird.

"Good morning, sir," she said. "I have your breakfast for you."

"Ah... thank you - yes..." Mycroft took the tray from her, vaguely wondering if Cliveden's guest services team had all recently been given a pay rise. They were terribly cheerful. "I don't suppose I could trouble you for fresh coffee in an hour, could I?"

"Of course," she said, and bobbed. "Enjoy your breakfast, Mr Holmes."

And off she went.

As Mycroft carried the tray back towards the bed, the sleeping figure within it stirred.

"Mycr'ff?"

There was a distinct bump in Mycroft's chest. He placed the tray in the empty space at the end of the bed. "Breakfast," he murmured, and watched Greg's eyes flutter open. "Perhaps more of a brunch, now."

Greg regarded the tray sleepily, then stretched, nuzzling into the pillow.

"Why're you up?" he asked. "S'early..."

It was nearly ten.

"Attending to some small tasks," Mycroft said. "Rare for me to sleep late."

"Mhrm." Greg gazed up at him, all deep brown eyes and tousled hair. He was almost mouth-watering. The sheets had contrived to lay across his lower back with the sort of masculine grace rarely seen outside classical sculpture. "Come lie down."

As Mycroft settled back into bed beside him, careful not to upset the tray, Greg smiled and eased himself closer. He reached for the sash of Mycroft's dressing gown.

"Let's get you cosy," he rumbled, pressing his soft mouth to Mycroft's. As they kissed he untied the fabric sash, teasing it apart with care. Mycroft could feel his heart leaping; he wanted skin. He wanted closeness. He'd waited all morning.

As he eased the robe back from Mycroft's shoulders, Greg hummed with contentment - as if Mycroft's body rightly belonged against his, and some higher order in the universe was now being restored. They nestled together, naked, sending a wave of relief and warmth rippling through Mycroft's veins. He could barely suppress a moan. As Greg's arms encircled him slowly, he felt himself tremor and Greg hugged him tighter, humming again, with a sleepily possessive squeeze he liked far too much.

"Can you reach the tray?" Greg murmured, pressing tiny kisses to his bare shoulder.

Nervously Mycroft shifted to pull it up the bed, close enough for them to reach.

Greg selected a cinnamon pastry from the plate. He tore it gently into small pieces, taking his time, then gathered Mycroft close against his chest.

He fed it to Mycroft by hand. As he did, he watched almost fondly, stroking beneath Mycroft's lips with a thumb - as if he simply enjoyed the sight of Mycroft eating.

Mycroft's heart was attempting to kick its way through his ribs.

 _Is this common practice, in these kinds of... arrangements?_ It was many years since he'd felt this comfortable with someone - and many years more since he'd had this kind of intimacy. Last night he'd fallen asleep in his afterglow, boneless and cradled in Greg's arms, their skin still damp from their gentle exertions. It had been a surprise to wake this morning still cuddled, and glowing with the warmth of nearly ten hours' sleep.

Even their quiet now felt cosy.

Greg didn't say a word as he fed Mycroft - simply watched him, admiring him, taking pleasure in his pleasure. Mycroft had never shared something like this before.

He gazed up at Greg, lost in quiet wonder.

 _If our affair became common knowledge,_ he thought, _it would be assumed I own you in some way. That you amuse me like a pet. Not like this._

_Not... that this is an affair._

They shared breakfast almost without a word, leaning together even to drink their coffee.

Finally, Greg moved the tray to the bedside. He eased back into Mycroft's arms, nudged him over onto his back on the bed, and nuzzled into his throat as he shifted on top.

"How long until your shmoozy lunch?" he murmured, as he parted Mycroft's thighs.

Mycroft's pulse hit the ceiling.

"P-Perhaps an hour." He grasped onto Greg's shoulders, feeling colour flooding his face already. _Oh god. Yes. Please yes._ "I-I will need to shower and dress..."

Greg's fingers skimmed between his thighs, easing across his entrance without preamble. The spike of excitement it caused was enough to vanish Mycroft's breath. He wrapped his thighs around Greg's waist with a gasp, gripping tight, and as Greg's fingers began to rub a lazy circle, he heard his mouth start to speak without his permission.

"Oh, _fuck_ \- please - please fuck me - please, I want to - "

Greg shivered, shifting his weight to pin Mycroft to the bed. "Mm hmm?" His mouth swiped over Mycroft's neck and grazed up to his ear, hot breath and stubble, rough and gentle at once. "Right now?" His fingers pressed, teasing.

Mycroft arched, throwing his head back into the pillow.

"Oh, _fuck -_ right now - "

Greg reached to the bedside for lubricant, popping the lid with his thumb. "Get me ready for you, gorgeous."

Shaking, Mycroft held open his hands for Greg to dispense the slick gel - too much, dripping down through his fingers onto his stomach - wet - messy - Mycroft had never liked messy before. He liked it now. He liked the feel of Greg's cock hardening in seconds in his slippery hands, and the soft grunt of satisfaction as Greg thrust between his fingers, the restless flashing of those big dark eyes above him. He let Mycroft slick him until the colour had risen high in his face, until their breath had tightened and the thought of _more_ was too much for both of them.

Greg then shifted, slipped his hands under Mycroft's thighs and pushed them apart and back. He pinned Mycroft open with a hand beneath each knee, crowding him up against the pillows. Mycroft swore and dug his fists into the sheets, panting, panic and animal excitement pounding through him as the head of Greg's cock nuzzled wetly at his entrance.

"Yeah?" Greg breathed against his mouth, curled over him, kissing him, hard and hot and firm strokes of tongue dipping between his lips, no space to do anything but gasp his answer into that devilish mouth, _yes, yes, fuck yes,_ and the feeling of Greg breaching him wrenched a cry from Mycroft's throat. He grappled for Greg's shoulders, digging in his nails hard enough to leave half-moon marks. He panted and begged as Greg filled him, slow and firm, unfaltering; Mycroft clung on and whimpered. The stretch was sharp and searing and deliciously good. _Fuck me,_ he heard himself pleading. _Make me ache. Make me feel it._

The rhythmic bump of the headboard against the wall was the banging of his heart.

As they fucked, he raked his hands through Greg's hair and down the muscles in his back. The pace picked up; he clawed into Greg's arse for more, panting through his teeth and now unleashing an amount of sound which nearby rooms could surely hear. Greg was slamming into his prostate on every thrust, groaning hot words of praise and encouragement against Mycroft's neck.

_Let them hear._

_Let them hear me fucked by the man who feeds me and holds me all night._

In only minutes, the intensity of the pleasure drove to such a peak that climax came almost as a shock - one moment, howling Greg's name and begging for harder; the next, writhing with the cascading force of his relief, arching up from the bed and dragging Greg inside him with his thighs, sobbing, realising in a rush Greg's thrusts were suddenly slick and short and urgent, Greg moaning at volume into his neck, heat flooding his insides. Shuddering, they came together.

When Mycroft's thoughts managed to reform, he found himself on Greg's lap in the bath.

Gentle fingers were stroking through his hair.

" - maybe?" Greg murmured, placing a kiss against his temple. "If you feel like it."

Mycroft shivered, weak. "S-Sorry?"

"After your lunch... might be nice. Masseuse was telling me there are different trails, and the woods around the estate are gorgeous this time of year... fresh air for us both." He felt Greg smile against his forehead, gentle arms tightening around him. "Stop me savaging you for five minutes."

"A walk?" The prospect felt like a window opening in Mycroft's heart. He didn't know why he wanted it so much, but he did. "Yes - yes, I... I'd like that. The woods _are_ beautiful."

"Have you walked in them before?"

"A few times." _Never with company._ "My - attire isn't particularly suited for walking."

"S'okay, sunshine... we can take an easier route. Just stroll together." Greg reached for a washcloth on the side, dipping it slowly in the steaming hot water. As it stroked down Mycroft's back, he felt every worry he'd ever had melting from his soul. "You sore, darlin'? Was I rough?"

Mycroft shivered, reeling.

"No," he whispered against Greg's neck - then modified, "N-No rougher than I wanted."

Greg smiled, slowly washing his back. "You know you can always tell me, if I get too much?"

_God._

_Please._

_Be too much._

"I have no reason to request change," Mycroft said softly, and felt Greg's gentle kiss rest upon his temple like a fallen leaf. "I'm - v-very pleased, Greg. With how things are."

Greg's mouth curved.

"Good," he murmured, reaching for shower gel. "Me too."

As Greg washed him gently, cleaning the sweat from his exhausted body, it occurred to Mycroft he felt more emotionally affected in this moment than if they'd slowly made love for hours. Rough sex with Greg left him soft and tactile. He wanted to be held. He wanted to talk, to walk together, disappear into the woods.

 _I rarely trust like this,_ he realised.

_Animal. Raw._

Anyone could be respectful to him. Anyone could hover near him, act with deference to him. It took a very different man to fuck him like he needed it.

"Can I help you get dressed?" Greg whispered, pouring water through his hair.

Mycroft trembled.

"Yes," he murmured.

 

*

 

As Greg did the buttons of his waistcoat for him, there came a knock at the door of their suite.

"Come in," Mycroft called.

The door opened; their young lady appeared with a coffee tray.

He'd quite forgotten.

"Thank you," Mycroft said, finding himself smiling. She gave a neat little bob, carrying it over to the fireplace for them. "I might have time for one cup," he told Greg, with a gentle glance. "Will you finish the rest?"

Greg smiled, slipping another button closed. "Sure, sunshine," he said. Mycroft felt his heart squeeze. "I'll find a use for it."

"Order some lunch," Mycroft murmured, "won't you?"

"Mm hmm." Greg leant up onto his toes, kissing the corner of his mouth. "And I'll see you on the South Terrace at two."

The young lady was pouring their coffee for them, her eyes averted. Mycroft was almost certain he could see her smiling.

"What're you having for lunch?" Greg asked him. "Pheasant sandwiches, is it?"

Mycroft's mouth curved against its wall. "Pheasant being the staple diet of the social elite?" he presumed.

Greg reached for his suit jacket, slipping it from the back of the chair.

"Bet you're not allowed to put crisps in a pheasant sandwich," he said, his eyes bright with amusement. He helped Mycroft pull the jacket on. "Probably doesn't go down well at the country club."

Mycroft lowered his voice, attempting to mask his delight. "Rogue."

Greg smoothed his lapels for him. "Guilty," he grinned, and kissed Mycroft's jaw.

The young lady from guest services was laying out their biscuits with curious care, ensuring they were all equidistant and pleasingly arranged.

"Do you know what you would like for lunch?" Mycroft asked Greg; she decided the biscuits were now fine, stood up and waited helpfully for instruction.

"Erm - d'you guys do sandwiches?" Greg asked.

"We do, sir," she said. "Pheasant and otherwise."

Greg's grin lit his eyes. "How about ham and cheese?" he said.

She nodded. "Of course. With crisps?"

"Ooh. Salt and vinegar, please. Don't worry about pre-installing them. I'll do that."

"Very good, sir. I won't be long." She left their room, prompt and efficient. As the door began to close, Mycroft caught the distinct first two steps of a skip, and she was gone.

Greg's arms slid around his waist.

"Tip that girl, won't you?" he said.

Mycroft pulled him close.

 

*

 

_'I'm very pleased, Greg. With how things are.'_

Greg flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, watching it blow away in the breeze. He was standing on the South Terrace in the chilly sunshine, leaning with his forearms against the balustrade as he looked out across the view.

It was beautiful here - the kind of place you could forget you were back in work tomorrow. It was a place for the soul to get cosy.

And cosy it was getting.

He'd thought of little except Mycroft since they parted at the door of the suite. Two hours had since idled by, thought-by-thought and memory-by-memory - sleeping, curled up together; sex, Mycroft pleading and panting through his teeth for more; the bath, cradling Mycroft's head against his shoulder as they rested.

It was hard to coax his mind onto anything else. Every night they spent, he only wanted Mycroft more.

 _Mycroft Holmes,_ he thought, dragging on his cigarette. _Sherlock's older brother. Sleek black cars and three-piece suits._

_Sometimes whimpers and pleads for rough._

The explosive sex somehow wasn't the surprising part - even if the memories alone were enough to start Greg's cock filling in his jeans. He'd hoped Mycroft would be fun, but he'd never dreamed _this_ much fun.

The true surprise was everything else.

This was their third day together in a row. It felt as comfortable and easy as the first. London was long gone. They were alone here in luxury at the edge of the world, no distractions, no escape routes, and when Mycroft was briefly absent, all Greg could do was think about him. There was no relief at a few quiet hours to himself. He didn't want to find some space for a while. The thought of his cramped and cluttered flat didn't bring him any joy. Tonight, trying to sleep, he'd be thinking about Mycroft - missing the warm and deep bed they'd shared, the cosy quiet of their suite - the way Mycroft now reached for his gaze, listened to him softly as he spoke.

He'd miss that bone-deep comfort of good sex with someone familiar. But he'd miss the company, too.

_Could be weeks before we see each other again after this. Depends._

_Depends what he wants._

There was a chance Greg needed to have a think.

A fairly good chance.

As he realised his cigarette had burned low without him, and was now threatening to scorch the ends of his fingers, Greg stubbed it out on the wall and flicked it off the terrace.

As he lit another, cupping the lighter in his hands and scowling at the breeze, a voice beside him said:

"I don't suppose I could trouble you...?"

Greg glanced up.

He'd been joined without his notice by a man who could only be a politician - tailored suit, a striped blue tie, a toupee just a touch too dark to pass for natural, and a very smooth and somewhat shiny face. His eyes were small and amused.

Wary, Greg handed over the lighter.

"Sure," he said. The breeze blustered around them. "Good luck with it."

The politician retrieved a pack of king-size Chesterfields from inside his suit, and took his time in extracting one.

"You're new to Cliveden?" he said, with interest.

Greg's thoughts had drifted onto Mycroft again. He retrieved them, taking a drag on his cigarette. "Er, yeah," he muttered. "Just visiting."

"Easy to be rather awestruck," the politician remarked, with the idling self-awareness of one who liked the way he sounded while flirting. "You don't seem to be, though..."

Greg said nothing, watching the horizon.

"You're a native Londoner, by your accent?"

_Not sure your type's allowed to use the word 'native' anymore, mate._

"Yeah," said Greg, vaguely, and glanced for his lighter - which was still in use. Mr Hairpiece didn't seem to be troubling himself to shield the breeze too diligently. _At what point does this count as a hostage situation?_

"What line of work are you in?" the politician asked.

Greg would never understand how some people persisted in the face of pointed disinterest. He supposed there was an element of challenge involved - of conquer. It was bloody irritating. He didn't like being openly rude. It wasn't easy for his nature, and at times like this it kicked him in the shins a little.

"Police," he muttered, trying to square his shoulders more. "D'you want to try facing away from the wind with that? You might get somewhere."

"Oh, police? How fascinating. I imagine that keeps you busy, does it?" The guy reacted with a pleasant mildness, as if Greg had told him he went to pottery classes. "How long have you been in the police?"

 _Jesus Merry Christ, take a hint._ "Too long," Greg said. "Here - "

He reached up, attempting to shield the lighter with a hand.

Before he'd thought the gesture through, Mr Hairpiece had quickly and sleekly curled a hand around his wrist - helping to hold him steady.

"Aren't you kind," the politician soothed, his fingers cold and insinuating. He dipped the end of the cigarette into the flame, attempting to meet Greg's eyes.

Greg's stomach twisted. Enough was enough - he'd have to be rude. He braced himself to pull away.

The politician's grip tightened.

A voice cut across the terrace.

"Frederic!"

Greg had never been so glad to see Mycroft in all his life. He came striding through the open doors, head high and his silhouette tall and clean in the autumn sunlight. He'd been up to the room to change, and wore no tie beneath his coat. The black leather gloves sent Greg's heart thrashing at once.

"For god's sake..." Mr Hairpiece muttered beneath his breath, clearly for Greg's benefit. As he released Greg's wrist, he straightened up with a flat and unwelcoming smile. "Mycroft," he said, in apparent pleasure. "Just heading off, are you?"

Mycroft strode towards them, perfectly calm; his eyes were fixed on Mr Hairpiece.

"Not quite yet," he said. "I thought we'd take in the grounds for a while. A shame to waste the chance."

The politician gave an awkward laugh.

"Ah... a kind offer," he said, "but I'm afraid I hadn't planned a stroll. I'm also rather busy. Another time, perhaps."

Something in Mycroft's targeted stride told Greg what he was about to do. He angled his body just a fraction, opening to the plan, and saw Mycroft's pace quicken.

As he reached them Mycroft's arm slipped at once beneath his coat, wrapping intimately around his waist; Greg leant into his side. The gesture couldn't have been more fluid if they'd rehearsed it. They settled together in one smooth and easy motion, two jigsaw pieces fitting.

Mr Hairpiece's eyebrows vanished beneath his toupee.

"You've met Gregory, have you?" Mycroft enquired. His arm tightened. "He always ensures I have my fill of fresh air before our return to London. Indispensable, darling, aren't you?"

Greg's heart gripped. He held Mr Hairpiece's shocked stare, resting his head against Mycroft's shoulder.

"I try," he said, placing his cigarette in his mouth.

Mycroft's fingers curled at his waist.

"Frederic and I were at Oxford together," he explained to Greg, with a kiss to the top of Greg's head. "Quite the long-standing association we have. What's that old saying, Frederic? _'God save me from my friends; I can protect myself from my enemies'?"_

Frederic's mouth twisted.

"Mm," he said. "Very droll. Believe my aunt has it on a fridge magnet."

"A lady of great taste," Mycroft said.

"As it seems are you," Frederic remarked, eyeing Greg. "Hadn't realised you were attached, Mycroft. How wonderful."

"Privacy is a jewel," Mycroft said, shortly. "Don't let us keep you."

Frederic - and his hairpiece - slunk away.

As he disappeared through the main doors, Mycroft gently released Greg's waist.

"Forgive me," he said at once. "I - may have over-reacted."

Greg exhaled in a rush, wishing he wasn't shaking. His heart was beating in his mouth. _"Thank you_ \- Christ, I'm glad you got here."

" - oh - no, I - I'm glad you're... are you alright?"

"Bloody _weirdo._ Just wouldn't take a hint."

"Had he been pestering you long?"

"Jesus. No. Not long. Long enough." Greg dragged on his cigarette, feeling stiff and cold. He missed Mycroft's arm around his waist. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Should've just - told him to - "

"A man like Frederic exploits politeness," Mycroft said, his jaw stiff, working a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. "He takes the noble inclination not to offend a stranger, and he utilises it for his own purposes. He does it with full awareness. And he is very good at it. I'm sorry I took so long to change."

"Hey... hey, don't - s'hardly your fault..." Greg's heart stirred as he watched Mycroft try to light the cigarette. He was visibly distressed, his shoulders high. "C'mere," Greg said, stepping close. He cupped his hands around Mycroft's to steady them. Shielded by both, the little flame grew. "I-It's alright, sunshine. No harm done."

"Forgive my - clumsy handling of - "

"No, don't - it - it was perfect. He's gone. S'all I could ask."

"I only thought to drive him away from you, and ensure he wouldn't come back. He's been known to be forceful in - "

"H-Hey..." Greg put a hand on Mycroft's chest, his fingers shaking. He looked up into Mycroft's eyes, watching them struggle to connect with his, searching for anything else in the world to look at. "I'm not upset. You rescued me from a creep. Why would I be upset?"

Mycroft took the cigarette stiffly into his mouth. "I'm sorry to have - over-exaggerated the nature of - "

Greg's stomach tightened.

"S'fine," he murmured, ignoring the hitch of his pulse. "Can you look at me, please?"

Mycroft swallowed, uneasy. He looked at Greg.

"It's fine," Greg told the distressed grey gaze, holding it in his own. "Seriously, Mycroft - listen to me - this is your game out here. You... know the rules. Tell people whatever makes life easy for you. I don't mind."

He watched the discomfort soften a little, as Mycroft processed what he was saying.

"Is he gonna cause you problems?" Greg asked.

Mycroft's mouth pulled around the cigarette. He removed it, flicking ash into the breeze. "He - might make it known that I'm..."

_Jesus._

"Yeah?" Greg cupped his face; he stroked his thumb beneath Mycroft's mouth. "Shrug and say you are. Problem solved."

Mycroft flushed with discomfort. He took a moment to speak, visibly preparing and then abandoning several replies.

"I'm sorry he touched you," he said.

Greg's heart twinged. "Had worse, sunshine." Gently he reached up, pressed his cheek to Mycroft's, and wrapped his arms around his neck.

After a moment Mycroft's hands encircled his back, tentatively, helping him stay on tiptoe. He'd thrown the cigarette away.

Greg tossed his, too.

He nuzzled into Mycroft's cheek. "Don't worry," he said, softly. "Weirdo grabbed my wrist, that's all. M'fine."

Mycroft's hands rubbed the material of his shirt - slow, gentling him, steady strokes to settle their pulses between them.

"I'm rather in need of a walk now," Mycroft confessed, his voice quiet in Greg's ear.

Greg hugged him tighter, closing his eyes to the breeze.

"Good job I'm here then," he said. "C'mon, darlin'... let's chill you out."

 

*

 

It was almost an hour before conversation grew easy again. Greg kept watch on Mycroft gently as they walked through the woods, giving him space to think, drawing him to the surface with casual questions when his thoughts seemed to weigh too heavily.

Focused on Mycroft, he wasn't sure which of the woodland walks they were following. The path was well-marked and clear between the trees, with the estate off to the west. Now and then they came across other people, out on a Sunday walk - families with young kids and dogs, couples like them who nodded and said hello as they passed. Greg figured there was only so lost you could get on a National Trust property. Someone would find you to sell you a membership before long.

He let the forest lead them where it wanted, walking side-by-side beneath the trees, as the rhythm of their footsteps carried Mycroft through.

After an hour, in the middle of a casual anecdote about his half-sister's kids, Greg felt Mycroft's hand slip quietly into his own.

He tangled their fingers, and carried on.

After another hour, it occurred to Greg they'd not encountered other walkers for a while. They must be some distance east along the river now. He didn't know how far the woods would lead; it was so easy just to wander and talk, listening to the wind among the leaves. Afternoon sun had gilded every tree in gold and copper, the colours were so bright they were almost unreal.

As they came to a fork in the path, split around an oak tree whose age was surely in the centuries, their conversation eased to a pause.

The tree's crown was full of sunlight, tiny insects shining against the deepening cornflower sky. As Greg gazed up at its craggy and ancient branches, he had the curious sense of being just where he should be - as if every tiny decision in his life had led him here to this moment, safe and sound, and he had nothing to worry about in the world. He was doing perfectly, and all would be well.

Mycroft's fingers tightened in his own.

Greg turned to look at him, smiling, hoping his awe was shared.

For a moment, the look on Mycroft's face made his heart grip - he didn't know if it was happy or not. It was full of too much for him to tell. Mycroft gazed at him as if seeing him for the first time, and it left Greg unable to speak.

He held his breath as Mycroft studied him, desperate not to shatter this moment.

Mycroft's throat muscles worked.

He stepped forwards, backing Greg up against the tree.

As they kissed, Mycroft's hands sought beneath his coat, under his shirt, raking with longing across his chest. Greg arched, panting with the pleasurable shock of cold fingers on his skin; Mycroft's tongue filled his mouth. He gripped Mycroft's hair tighter and breathed, the bark firm and rough against his back as he stirred, sunlight dappling across his eyes. Mycroft kissed him like they'd never get another chance. They kissed until their jaws ached, until Greg knew beyond all doubt that only this place existed in the world. Outside these woods, every clock had come to a stop. Every person stood frozen in time, an illusion waiting to resume. Only Mycroft's body pressing him against the bark was real. Mycroft's pulse, quick and hard against his own, was the only other living pulse.

Greg shook, struggling with a feeling he was starting to understand.

Mycroft breathed against his mouth.

"Stay for dinner." His fingers carded through Greg's hair. "Travel back to London with me tonight. I'll return you to your flat by ten o'clock."

_Don't._

Greg's heart clenched.

_Don't give me back._

_Keep me here and kiss me. Put your arms around me. Talk like we're here all the time, like I look after you, like I know what you need._

_Oh._

_Oh, fuck._

_Oh no._

Aching, shutting his eyes, Greg swallowed.

"S-Sure," he whispered. "Dinner. Yeah. I'd love to."

Mycroft's fingers curled beneath his jaw; they tilted back his head.

"I'd love you to," he breathed, and pressed his lips to Greg's.

 


	7. Gay or Taken

"Your couple are in the Astor Grill."

Katie looked up from her sheet of tonight's check-ins, finding a work friend leaning against her desk. _My couple,_ she thought. "Oh?"

"Yep. None of us can concentrate."

Katie laid the check-in sheet aside. It could wait.

"What're they doing?" she asked.

"Don't think they know anyone else is in the room with them... just gazing at each other over cocktails." Priya sighed, resting her chin on one hand. "The grey-haired one - "

" - Greg - "

" - yeah - he was feeding the other one pieces of gnocchi across the table. Watching him eat them."

Katie felt her heart squeeze. "God."

"They've ordered the chateaubriand to share. I think I'm going to die. I had to come out here just to breathe." Priya eyed Katie with interest, smiling. "Are they still like that when they're alone? You took their breakfast up, didn't you?"

"They're exactly like that." Katie thought about it. "Actually, you know what? They're more. They're _more_  like that."

Priya heaved a sigh. "Really?"

"Flirting and kissing..." Katie gazed across at the CCTV screen which showed the restaurant, wishing it wasn't so blurry. "Greg calls him 'sunshine'."

"Ugh, Katie. Just bury me."

"Yeah. We'll bury each other."

"Do you ever wish you could have that? Someone rich to come and spoil you and adore you forever? God, and the pair of them are good-looking too... and they're so in love. I can't cope."

"Did you know we had a noise complaint from the next room?"

_"What?"_

"Yeah." Katie bit her lip. "Promised I'd pass it on, but... how d'you explain to someone you can't ask other guests to have sex more quietly please?"

"Oh my god, Katie. Stop it."

"I'm serious."

Priya gave another wistful sigh. "Still like that, even when you've been together forever and ever... can you imagine?"

"I wish."

"I wonder where they met. Somewhere gorgeous, probably. Are they married?"

"They've got different surnames," said Katie, "but... they might be. Like a power couple. I bet they've got a beautiful house." Her chest expanded at the thought. "Bet they've got dogs or something... really cute ones..."

"Ugh. I want to be married like that." Priya trailed her fingertips along the polished surface of the desk. "I want someone to feed me in a restaurant and call me sunshine."

"They're leaving today. We've got their cases in left luggage."

"They'll be going after dinner," Priya said. "Shame. I hope they come back."

"It's nice, isn't it? Seeing couples like that." Katie reached for her check-in sheet, supposing she'd better get on with some work. "It's true, isn't it?" she said. "The best ones are all gay or taken."

Priya snorted, straightening up from the desk. "Or both."

 

*

 

As the bill arrived, Mycroft slipped a debit card from inside his jacket. Greg reached at once for his wallet.

"Halves?" he said.

Mycroft gave him a look of gentle amusement.

"A work expense," he said, handing his card to the waiter. "There's no need."

Greg felt his heart twinge.

"Can I at least contribute?" he asked. "I saw how much those steaks cost, Mycroft. Let me cover my share."

"Not at all," Mycroft said. He took the card machine as it was handed to him, checking the amount. "I'm grateful for your company."

Greg decided he knew better by this point than to argue with a Holmes. He put his wallet away with a reluctant smile, and finished the last of his cocktail.

As they waited for the transaction to go through, there came a faint ping from nearby.

Mycroft consulted his phone.

"Our car is here," he remarked, as the waiter returned the card to him with murmured thanks. He glanced up at Greg. "Are you ready to leave?"

_No. Not at all._

Greg forced a smile.

"Sure," he said. "Let's get going."

As they approached the front desk, a familiar face glanced up from the CCTV screen.

"Hello, sir," she said brightly, spotting them. "Are you here for your luggage?"

Mycroft smiled, placing the key for the Orkney Suite upon the desk. "If you wouldn't mind."

Greg found himself oddly touched that she didn't need his name. She slid out of her chair and disappeared into a backroom, returning a moment later with Mycroft's suitcase. Mycroft was filling out a feedback form on the desk, occupied.

Greg slipped behind the desk to help her.

"Here, chick," he said with a smile. "I'll take it. There should be an old backpack, too."

She retrieved it for him.

"Here you are," she said, handing it over. As Greg slung it onto his shoulder, she smiled at him. "Have you and your partner enjoyed your stay?"

_Christ._

_My - partner._

He didn't know if Mycroft could hear or not - but he couldn't exactly say, _oh, no, I'm just his fuck friend._

"We have," he said. Just being connected with Mycroft in that tiny sentence made his heart beat harder. "You've all been really kind to us. Thanks."

"I hope we'll see you again soon," she said.

_One hour from now, I'll be alone in my flat._

_Ironing with the TV._

_Work in the morning._

Greg smiled, hoping it looked stronger than it felt. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, me too."

 

*

 

Mycroft helped him carry the suitcase down the steps to the waiting car. Greg found himself aware of the quiet between them, conversation crowded out by thoughts. He wished he knew what Mycroft was thinking.

"Did you write something nice on the form?" he asked.

"That I hope the management are proud of their guest services team," Mycroft said, "who consider nothing too much trouble, and made us feel entirely welcome during the course of our stay."

_Did you really put 'us', darlin'?_

_Did you actually put 'our'?_

Mycroft's driver seemed thoroughly unsurprised by Greg's presence. As she transferred their cases into the trunk, her expression a wall of neutrality, Mycroft stepped forward and got the door for Greg. Though the gesture raised warmth behind his ribs, his nervous sadness returned as soon as he settled into the seat.

_Last hour now,_ he thought. Mycroft got in beside him. _Last sixty minutes before it's over._

It had somehow come about very quickly.

As the driver took her seat and shut the door, Greg's stomach tightened. _Not even alone anymore._ He wished he'd taken the chance to kiss Mycroft goodbye on the steps. _Will you get out to hug me? Or will you just turn me out of the car?_

_Oh Christ, I'm in deep... this is big._

_This is more._

_Shit._

_Shit, shit..._

Mycroft leant forwards to his driver, and discreetly gave Greg's address as their first point of call. She nodded, starting the engine. Mycroft closed the privacy screen, leant back in his seat, and laid an arm around Greg's shoulders.

Throat thick, Greg settled into his side. He rested his head on Mycroft's chest and closed his eyes, not wanting to watch the grounds and the house slip away. He'd rather they were just gone.

"Thank you for joining me here," Mycroft murmured. He seemed to pause, then pressed a small kiss to the top of Greg's head. "I've appreciated your company very much, Greg. I hope it's been enjoyable for you."

"It's been great." _C'mon, Lestrade. Don't get clingy. You've had fun._ "Thanks for bringing me - I mean it. I hope I've not been too distracting."

Mycroft's arm tightened. "Far from."

There was quiet for some time as they drove. Greg found himself wishing he could think of something casual to say - some cheerful conversation they could make, as if they were the friends they claimed to be. It was hard to think of anything right now except walking through the door of his flat, in less than an hour's time, and finding himself alone in the quiet.

_Jesus, what've I done?_

_Big deal like you. Dinners. Evening functions. Work you can't even tell people about._

_This is so typical of me. Telling you I can be something casual, then..._

" - give you any undue trouble," Mycroft said, and Greg made a conscious effort to tune back into the world outside his head. "I appreciate the problem isn't solely linked to his actions, though."

"Sorry?"

"Starr," said Mycroft. It still took a few seconds for Greg to catch up. "Moving house has made you safer, at least."

Greg had almost forgotten Ian Starr existed. _There's a miracle in itself._

"I'll be fine," he said. He lifted his head, brushing his nose across Mycroft's cheek. "I'm on the second floor now. Hard to lob a brick that high."

Mycroft made a quiet noise of unease. "Is he likely to attempt such a thing?"

"S'unlikely. He'd have to find my new flat first."

Mycroft said nothing for a moment.

"Do be watchful," he then murmured, "won't you?"

Greg's heart gripped. "Part of the job... sure I'll be fine."

 

*

 

As the familiar streets of Barking began to appear, Greg watched them with a heavy heart. He tried to ground himself in thoughts of work in the morning, hoping he had at least one clean shirt in the wardrobe. His kitchen bin probably reeked by now; the ironing pile was no smaller than it had been on Friday. Life was waiting for him, right where he'd left it, and by this time tomorrow he'd be neck-deep in it again.

He'd never been so sorry to see a Sunday evening.

Mycroft was quiet in the seat beside him, a little awkward now reality had returned. He'd pulled his gloves on against the settling cold, and his features were hard to read in the darkness. He was thinking. It was in the way Greg had sometimes seen Sherlock think - thoughts too thick for mere mortals to penetrate, thoughts which kept his face blank and his eyes guarded.

At last, feeling uncomfortably like a taxi passenger, Greg lowered the privacy screen.

"I'm, erm - just past the lights, thanks. You can drop me by the phone box, if it's easier."

Mycroft's driver complied without a word, cruising them to a halt on the corner.

Greg hesitated. He looked over at Mycroft in the darkness, his heart thudding.

"Thanks," he said, "for..."

Mycroft held his gaze. "There's no need to thank me. I enjoyed our time together."

_And now it's over._

Greg felt something in his chest strain. He wanted to kiss goodbye. This three-day fantasy of being Mycroft's lover was at an end, and he didn't know if he'd ever have the chance to repeat it. Mycroft didn't have a lot of free time, and there wasn't any way Greg could ask for this again. _'Hey, shall we go to a country hotel for three days and charge it to your work account?'_ This had been fun, and he'd fallen too far - and this was the final minute of it.

He gazed into Mycroft's eyes, wishing he could put his distress and gratitude into words safe to say. _This felt really special. I'm sorry it's over. I'll think about you._

It seemed too much - and at the same time, not enough.

"Text me, yeah?" he said. His voice threatened to shake. He clamped down on it, forcing himself to smile. "Hope work gets easier."

Mycroft gave a short nod, lowering his eyes.

_Take a hint, Lestrade. Don't make this weird._

_Your own fault. You knew who he is. You knew he's a big deal._

As Greg took hold of the door, Mycroft's hand appeared on his arm.

Greg froze.

"Greg, I - appreciate this is perhaps excessive." A moment's painful silence held. "Forgive me, if it is."

Greg searched Mycroft's face, trying to stop his heart lurching. "Yeah?"

Mycroft's expression didn't move. He regarded Greg with care, as if trying to weigh up a risk.

"If you wished," he said, "if you've no objection to a third night, you could - join me, perhaps. At my flat."

He hesitated; his fingers loosened from Greg's arm.

"But if that oversteps the tenets of our arrangement, then - please do say."

Greg inhaled, dizzy with the rush of a reprieve. _Christ. Yes._

_One more night._

"Can you give me a minute to grab my suit for the morning?" he said. "I've got an early start. Won't be able to get back here, to - "

Mycroft nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, of course. We'll wait."

_Holy fuck._ "Right. I won't be long."

Greg hurried across the road, let himself in through the door of his flat, and took the stairs three at a time. He'd left his backpack in the boot. It didn't matter. He threw his suit over his arm, grabbed Friday's empty Sainsburys bag from the kitchen counter and scooped a haphazard clutch of toiletries into it. He dug some clean boxers out of his drawer, threw them in too, and seized his work keys from the bowl.

Halfway down the stairs, he remembered with a curse and ran back up for a shirt.

As he let himself back into the car, Mycroft looked up from his phone with visible relief. He reached for Greg at once, helping him in with his things.

_Holy shit._

_Like you worried I wouldn't come back._

_Like you thought I'd get up there, and bail on you._

Greg slammed the door behind him, slung his suit over the seat and scooted closer, his heart hammering.

He didn't know which of them reached for the other first. As their mouths met, and as Mycroft's fingers ached through his hair, Greg registered only dimly the subtle snap of the privacy screen. They curled together, breathing hard, kissing in desperation as the car set off.

He pulled Mycroft's body closer, shivering as the lights of London swept over them in the dark.

_One more night. Just a few more hours with you._

_Reality in the morning._

_I'll be ready for it then._

 

*

 

It seemed like only minutes before they pulled up outside Mycroft's flat. Mycroft retrieved a few items from his suitcase and instructed the driver to return it to the house. As she headed off into the night, Mycroft took Greg's hand and pulled him without a word to the door. He was visibly shaking as he keyed them into the flat.

Greg gave him enough time to lock the door. He then pulled Mycroft around, pushed him up against it, and covered Mycroft's mouth with his own.

Kissing blurred into touching and stripping, fervent moans breathed into the quiet. Clothes dropped to the carpet all around them. Mycroft's body had never felt so good against Greg's, arching against the door as Greg uncovered more and more of his pretty skin. They struggled out of underwear, Greg's pulse racking upwards, and Mycroft began to pant as if in pain. Naked at last, Greg pinned him back into place and kissed him like they could come from it, their bodies grinding, their breath rough, Mycroft's mouth hot and soft and willing and so enjoyable to fuck with his tongue it was obscene.

_I don't want to think. I want to feel._

_I want to feel with you._

They stayed by the door until Mycroft was nearly whimpering, shaking as he tried to push Greg's hands where he needed relief. Greg broke the kiss with a shudder. He bent down and swept Mycroft into his arms without a word, earning himself a startled squeak. Greg held him tight, got Mycroft's arms safe around his neck, and carried him through to the bedroom.

No lights - they didn't need lights for this. Greg knew where the bed was, and he knew where Mycroft's body was, and nothing else mattered in the world. They kissed in a frenzy, gripping each other, tongues plunging with untempered need inside each other's mouths, as Greg prayed to every god in the sky for the patience not to come just from hearing Mycroft moan like this. They kept kissing as he fingered Mycroft slowly, teasing him, circling his prostate with two slick fingers until Mycroft was struggling to breathe.

Shifting to the middle of the bed, he dragged Mycroft up onto his lap.

They kissed as they fucked, hard and slow, the same aching motion in a cycle. Mycroft trembled with each stroke, his arms curled around Greg's shoulders. He let Greg lift him, fuck him, pull his hips down harder when he needed it, muffling his whimpers of enjoyment against Greg's mouth.

He rocked just as Greg showed him, panting, his thighs shaking, and even when Greg knew he must be exhausted he kept going - kept fucking himself on Greg's cock, breathing encouragement against Greg's panting mouth, resisting all efforts to stop and change position. He knew Greg liked it this way. He wanted Greg to have it. Greg couldn't bring himself to resist.

He'd never felt so trusted with someone's body.

"You're fucking gorgeous," he heard himself gasp, his whole chest aching. Mycroft moaned in breathless longing, fucking himself down faster. "O-Oh _fuck -_ fuck, sweetheart, _fuck...!"_

As the pleasure began to sharpen, rioting through Greg's body in hot white waves, he gasped his broken warning against Mycroft's mouth. Mycroft's arms tightened around his shoulders.

"Yes," Mycroft gasped, raking his hands through Greg's hair. His fingers scrunched. "Yes, _yes -_ yes, fuck, _fucking fill me - "_

Greg bucked up, moaning into his mouth. Mycroft drove himself back down, panting; he cried out as he felt Greg start to come inside him.

"Oh god, _yes_ \- yes - make me wet - "

Greg groaned, begging, gripping Mycroft hard. Mycroft's arms locked around him. He took Greg deep; he held on as Greg's entire body pulsed with pleasure, cradling him as he panted through each soft and shocking wave, stroking his hair, crooning comfort against his mouth.

Relief slugged in the wake of climax, drenching Greg from the inside-out. He could feel sweat gleaming down his back. He couldn't breathe. His heart was still pounding out the last of it - but the nuzzle of Mycroft's erection against his stomach mattered more than relaxing.

Panting, aching, he wrapped his arms round Mycroft's waist and tipped them both sideways.

It took his last shred of strength to nudge Mycroft over onto his back.

"Rest," Mycroft gasped, even as Greg pushed his thighs apart. "Oh, god - _Greg..."_

Greg leant down, still breathing hard, and nuzzled into Mycroft's balls. Mycroft's cry tightened his heart. Shifting, he pulled Mycroft's legs over his shoulders, one and then the other, and reached up to wrap a hand around Mycroft's rigid cock. He began a loose stroke, nuzzling lower, and flashed his tongue across Mycroft's entrance - tasting himself there, wet around the ring of soft and gaping muscle.

Mycroft's back bowed from the bed.

His hips bucked; he began to plead.

_It's alright, darlin'... let me make it alright..._

Inhaling in huffs through his nose, pressed up against Mycroft's perineum, Greg spiralled his tongue and teased until Mycroft's fingers actually hurt in his hair. The soft, begging cries were perfect. He wanted more. In search of them he let his tongue dip inside Mycroft, shallowly at first, squirming with little swirls and then thrusting deeper as he encountered no resistance. He kept his fist moving around Mycroft's cock, kept his stroking quick and loose, earning himself a gasped sob and another jerk of Mycroft's hips. He settled into a rhythm he could match with his tongue, concentrating on licking himself from Mycroft's body. Mycroft's thighs began to grip either side of Greg's head. His hips shook, trying to flex up in search of tighter stroking. Greg held him down; he fucked Mycroft deeper with his tongue.

Mycroft's noise at the point of climax was barely human. His entire body stiffened, every muscle pulling tight; he dug his nails into Greg's shoulders so hard he nearly drew blood. Greg gently licked him through it. He rubbed Mycroft's cock with care, squeezing every last drop onto his stomach.

In the shocked silence which followed, he lowered Mycroft's legs to the bed.

They were shaking.

_Mine,_ Greg thought. He kissed Mycroft's panting stomach. Come smeared across his jaw. _Mine right now. All fucking mine._

Mycroft let out a gasp, exhausted; his body stirred against the bed.

Greg brushed a kiss over his pulse.

His own heart hammered in his throat.

_I know you're important, darlin'. I know you don't have time for love. I know I'd wreck this into pieces if I asked._

_But you still need someone to fuck you, sweetheart._

_Let it be me._

_I'll give you everything. I'll take anything._

_Just please let it be me._

 


	8. Involved

Gentle fingers curled around Mycroft's cheek; lips stroked his mouth.

"Mycroft..." It was barely a whisper. "You awake, gorgeous?"

Happiness hazed through Mycroft's soul.

Shivering a little, he stirred within the sheets and responded to the kiss. Their lips sealed, easy and comforting. As sleep dispersed slowly from the edges of his mind, he let Greg guide him into the new day.

_Three nights._

_Three nights in your arms. Three nights held warm against your chest._

Greg's thumb traced the curve of Mycroft's lower lip; Pavlovian heat swirled through his abdomen at once. He reached out with hope, wrapping his arms around Greg's neck.

The gentle murmur of protest stalled his pulse.

"I've - gotta go, sunshine... taxi's here."

_Oh._

"Didn't want to just..." Greg hesitated, stroking his cheek. "Creep out with my shoes in my hand. Not after this weekend."

Mycroft opened his eyes. Through the fog of sleep, he found Greg fully-dressed and leaning over him, work-suit and coat, a look of hesitation in his soft brown eyes.

Postponing this moment hadn't made it any easier.

Mycroft wasn't sure how he had the nerve to be surprised.

He reached up, brushing his fingers through Greg's hair one last time.

"Thank you," he whispered. His heart strained, watching his own fingers stroke the soft silver-grey. "Thank you for - ... have an excellent week." _I will think about you. I will miss you._

Greg pressed a quiet kiss to his lips.

"I'll text," he murmured. "I'll be in touch."

 _Oh god._ Mycroft didn't know what to say.

From somewhere outside, there came a truculent honk from a waiting car.

"Bye, sunshine..." Greg kissed him one last time.

As their lips parted, Mycroft felt his throat thicken. There was nothing he could do to make him stay. There was no more opportunity to carry on this illusion. "Goodbye, Greg."

Greg pulled himself away, his expression tight with something which looked like guilt. He turned, left the bedroom quietly, and a moment later there came the snap of the front door.

He was gone.

Wide awake, Mycroft laid alone in bed and faced the ceiling.

_Monday._

The same faces he'd last seen on Friday; the same matters he'd been dealing with. The same office would be waiting, the same green salad for lunch, the same steady progression from Monday to Friday once more.

The only thing which had changed was him.

Somehow he'd have to pretend things were quite normal. He'd have convince himself he cared about the political trivialities in which he made his trade, and carry on as if he hadn't just spent three nights as close to another human as he'd ever been.

_'I'll text. I'll be in touch.'_

But when?

Weeks had passed between their previous meetings.

It had now been a matter of minutes since Greg left - and already Mycroft found himself keenly, distressingly alone. He didn't feel as if he were in his own body. Part of him was somewhere in the back of a taxi, trying to follow Greg where he went, wanting to stay with him, for no purpose other than to hear his voice.

 _Mine,_ Mycroft thought. Pain jagged through his chest. _Mine for a while._

He'd envisaged waking up together - some time to lie warm in the silence, share the kind of closeness they'd had at Cliveden. Perhaps a shower, gently kissing. Breakfast at the counter. Quiet conversation. Some reassurance this weekend had truly been what, at times, it had seemed.

As Mycroft realised he hadn't hoped for sex this morning, but for affection, the distress grew too sharp to permit.

He pushed back the covers, took himself in silence to the bathroom and started a scalding hot shower, trying to force his thoughts onto the day's schedule.

 _I must forget,_ he told himself, washing his skin and his hair clean. _Our arrangement was for sex, to relieve the frustrations of our lives. Sex has been had._

_Now I return to the frustrations._

 

*

 

The car arrived on the stroke of half past eight. Mycroft was waiting on the pavement for it. He'd almost convinced himself it was in case of traffic en route to Whitehall - but in fact, the quiet of the empty flat had become too much to bear.

As the car came to a stop, and Anthea emerged, Mycroft found himself unsettled by the brief rush of resentment he felt towards her. Her appearance heralded another stage of the weekend ending. It was in no way her fault - and on this morning when his defences were already so compromised, guilt arose before she'd even opened the door for him.

He kept his eyes down as he got into the car. The door closed with a snap, and she slid gracefully into the seat beside him.

"Thank you, Larry," she said. The driver nodded, and the doors locked.

As they set off, Anthea leant forwards to the privacy screen.

Mycroft watched her close it with a strange flicker of foreboding. It clicked into place, and she sat back in her seat, switching idly through screens on her phone.

"How was Cliveden?" she asked, her tone mild.

Mycroft's heart gripped. He looked at her, numb, and waited for the pretense to be abandoned.

Finally, with a glance over her phone, Anthea let the smile emerge upon her mouth.

"From several sources, actually."

Mycroft inhaled. "Who?"

"Clarence Talbot," she said, "and Frederic Hargreaves."

 _I will eviscerate the pair of you._ Frederic, Mycroft could almost understand. The man was a weasel in human form, and when denied what he wanted, he invariably opted for spite as a consolation prize.

Clarence Talbot, however, would shortly learn a valuable lesson regarding the throwing of stones in glass houses.

Mycroft hoped his wife knew an excellent lawyer.

"The guest services team were also unknowingly generous with their information," Anthea added, interrupting his thoughts. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. "I wasn't about to believe rumour without some impartial confirmation, sir... I called the hotel early this morning, introduced myself as your PA, and asked if an invented item of yours had been found in the room. The young lady who answered was highly conducive to chat."

Mycroft felt his stomach harden.

"I believe we've previously discussed the boundaries of your professional domain," he said, stiffly. "I think we reached the consensus they end at my private life."

"On the contrary, Mr Holmes... as management of your security falls to me, I'd say it's rather vital I have all the facts required to do my job." She checked her phone with a casual flick of her kohl-lined eyes, dismissing the notification she'd just received without a blink. "I hadn't realised your association with Lestrade had become so close. Congratulations, sir."

Mycroft said nothing, feeling his pulse lurch.

Anthea reached beneath the seat, retrieving her briefcase and opening it with two neat clicks. The documents inside were freshly printed on thick white paper.

"I've completed all the sections I can," she said, slipping a pen from inside her jacket - and as Mycroft realised, he felt his fragile defences reel beneath the final fatal blow. "If you wish to finish the rest now, I can relay them to Scotland Yard over lunch for Lestrade's signature, then have them processed while you're busy with the think tank this afternoon."

She held the briefcase out to him.

The look on his face gave her pause.

" - sir?" she said, faltering at last.

Mycroft gazed down at the printed document. _Registration of Intimate Partner._

It took a moment for him to speak.

"I'm afraid your initiative is - premature in this instance," he managed. His voice didn't sound like his own. "The document shan't be needed."

Anthea said nothing, watching him closely.

Mycroft couldn't cope with the silence. "Lestrade is not my partner. You've heard misleading reports."

She retained her silence, waiting. Mycroft would usually be capable of resisting the pressure to explain - but the sight of the document had left him as fragile as tissue. Something in desperate need of comfort was willing to reach for any possible source, and before he could fortify himself into silence, he'd started to speak once more.

"I won't belittle your intelligence by claiming he and I are not engaged in intimacy. But he - I do not believe - there is no suggestion the connection exceeds a friendship. Documentation shan't be necessary."

His assistant searched his face. "What I've heard about this weekend would place a question mark over that, Mr Holmes."

A frisson of anger cracked its way through the distress. Mycroft attempted to mask it from his face.

"Unless your sources were also present in my suite," he snapped, "I suggest you take _my_ view on the situation as conclusive."

Her forehead creased. "Frederic Hargreaves - " she began.

Mycroft drowned her out. In this moment, the anger felt as safe and comforting as a blanket - as safe as Greg's arms had been.

"Frederic bloody Hargreaves is not a reliable indicator of _anything,"_ he said, _"as well you know._ The wretched man took - _predatory_ interest in Lestrade, which I circumvented. I'm sure my discreet intervention is now being painted as some heroic staking of ownership. What remains unclear is why the opinions of all and sundry are trumping mine."

She listened, processing - but did not retreat. Her calm only angered him more.

"The guest services team were under the impression the two of you are married," she said.

Mycroft's heart convulsed.

"Clearly they are all underworked," he said, "if they have the time to indulge in romantic fantasy regarding their guests."

As bewilderment filled her eyes, Mycroft couldn't bear the sight of her face any longer. He reached for his phone with a scowl, his jaw set.

"Sir," she said at last, as he opened his e-mails. "Sir, as your security management, I... _need_ to know the status of your close associations, in order to make decisions regarding your safety. I'm sorry to ask you for clarification."

Mycroft's jaw tightened further.

"If I had clarification to give," he said, "I would give it to you, Anthea."

She paused. He could feel her reading him, weighing his response. "You've - quarrelled with Lestrade?" she ventured.

"No," he said. _It is not nearly that simple._ "No, we - he and I are on good terms. Merely informal ones."

Her head tilted. "By... 'informal'..."

The words caused him almost physical pain to speak. "Lestrade and I have an arrangement," he said. "Not a relationship."

She continued with care.

"Sir, I've... naturally noticed your previous meetings with Lestrade. I'd be failing you in my security duties, if I hadn't. But this weekend seems to have been a more... _involved_ affair. I assumed there'd been some manner of emotional advancement."

Mycroft stared down at his screen.

The truth was there _had_ been emotional advancement - far more of it than he knew how to cope with.

And that was the problem.

"Lestrade is not my partner," he said, and ignored the spike of pain. He drew a breath to dissolve it into nothing. "Conduct further background checks on him if you have concerns for my safety. Registration shan't be needed."

She said nothing, lapsing at last into silence.

They carried on towards the office, and the weekend was not mentioned again.

 

*

 

"Good weekend?"

Sally appeared in Greg's office within a minute of him taking off his coat. The drive here had been strange and quiet, unlightened by music on the radio; he had the feeling he wasn't prepared for this day. Mycroft would still be in bed, sleeping off the night.

Greg wished more than anything he was there.

As something in his sergeant's tone suggested more than a casual inquiry, he glanced up from his e-mails with a frown.

"Yeah... really good." He read her expression; there was no hint of a smile. "You're going to spoil it, aren't you?"

Sally bit the corner of her lip. "Sorry," she said. "I thought about ringing you at home, but... figured it could wait until now."

 _Christ._ "Tell me, Sally."

"You know your old flat?"

"Yeah..."

"Good job you moved out to Barking. New owners were watching TV on Saturday night when a brick came flying through the front window, second one immediately after - hit the guy on the side of the head. Nearly put him in hospital."

Greg's stomach dropped several floors.

 _"No,"_ he breathed.

"Yeah. Whoever did it ran off before a street team could get there. We're trying to get CCTV or witnesses, but... that time of night, plenty of people around. Easy to get lost in a crowd. There was, uh... something carved in the front door, too."

She came towards his desk, sliding her phone from her jacket.

Greg braced himself. Sally loaded up a photograph, turned the phone sideways and held it out. Without a word Greg took it, looking down at a picture of his old front door.

There was a childish smiley face carved into the painted wood. It had splintered in places, the line cracked and jagged, one eye several inches higher than the other - but it was clear enough.

"Christ almighty," Greg muttered.

Sally hovered at his side, saying nothing.

"Any idea where Ian Starr was on Saturday night?" Greg asked.

Sally raised an eyebrow. "He was throwing a brick through your window, sir."

"That's not my window. That's some poor bastards who - ... Christ, he doesn't know I moved. He thinks I'm still there. They're not safe."

"Have a feeling they're looking for a new place already," Sally said. "We've suggested the landlord get CCTV installed, and that the tenants keep their doors locked at night... contact us if anyone suspicious is hanging about, but..."

Greg exhaled slowly.

"But what else can they do?" he muttered, as he gave her back the phone. "Has anyone spoken to Ian Starr?"

"I had people trying to track him down yesterday," she said. "We got hold of his sister, who said he was staying with a cousin - the cousin told us he's actually staying with a friend - the friend said Ian was there Saturday night, _all_ night, and they were watching the football together. Says Ian didn't leave the flat for even a second."

"'Course he didn't."

"He's now living with another friend, apparently - but the first friend couldn't be sure of the address. Promised he'd tell Ian to ring us, when he sees him next."

Greg sighed, rubbing his hands across his face. "S'like dealing with the bloody mafia. God help us."

"Have you seen anyone suspicious hanging around your new place?"

"I wasn't there this weekend. Ian Starr could've been sat on my couch, drinking my beer and watching my TV for all I know."

"Better keep an eye out," she said, carefully. "If he realises you've moved..."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know." Greg reached up to lace his hands across the back of his neck. "Funny how it's _my_ fault he went to prison, isn't it? You'd think it's at least _partly_ his fault, trying to burn a family alive in their shop."

"Yeah. Not sure _he_ thinks like that, sir. Can I get you a coffee?"

"God. Yeah, please. Two sugars."

As Sally reached his door, she glanced back. "Good weekend, then?"

Greg didn't react. _Fell in love with my fuck buddy, Sal. Messing around in a posh hotel, kidding myself I'm his mistress._

"Yeah," he said, quietly, "yeah, it was great," and forced his attention back to his inbox.

 

*

 

Nine PM had been and gone.

Mr Holmes showed no signs of finishing for the evening. He'd been alone in his office with the door closed since this morning, communicating only through brief and tersely-worded e-mails.

Anthea knew better than to disturb him.

Whatever had occurred with Lestrade, Mr Holmes had reached for work to soothe it - and that was that. Anthea had spent nearly a decade by his side now. She'd learned the only course of action in these situations was the careful application of time and space, and to hope he found his own way to some place of peace. It was so rare to see him forge a personal connection, but they always seemed to end this way: in silence, locked away in his office, taking sudden close interest in tasks he normally left to others.

It was a shame. She'd been delighted, hearing tales of cocktails over dinner - walking together around the Cliveden estate. Mr Holmes had been in a far better mood since commencing the affair with Lestrade. Sneaking the man to Cliveden for the weekend was almost breathlessly romantic, and though she now desperately regretted the decision to present Mr Holmes with the forms, she'd calculated it as an almost guaranteed eventuality.

There must be some factor at play she hadn't accounted for.

Mr Holmes, as private and solitary as a deep sea creature, didn't like to reveal the shadowed corners of his heart. The matter was beyond her reach now. Her own private speculation wouldn't aid the situation in the slightest, nor ensure their work was still completed to schedule - and so she chose not to engage in it.

She kept herself occupied all day, focused on responding to his e-mails promptly, and at nine o'clock tapped on the door of his office with professional detachment.

"Sir?"

There was a pause.

"Enter," he called.

As Anthea opened the door, he was quietly rubbing his fingertips against his eyes. His sleeves were rolled; he had the distinct look of a man who'd just raised his head from his hands.

"Is there anything you need before I leave, Mr Holmes?" she asked.

Mr Holmes gazed at her for a moment, pale. He seemed to be approaching a difficult decision.

"May I detain you for another few minutes?" he said at last.

Anthea kept the flicker of surprise off her face. "Of course. Shall I come in?"

He nodded, wordless.

Calmly she entered his office, closed the door with a quiet snap behind her and took a seat before his desk, ignoring the distinct aroma of cigarettes.

There came an uncomfortable silence.

Then he said,

"I - find myself lacking knowledge. I wonder if it is knowledge you might have."

Anthea spoke with care. "As ever, Mr Holmes, I am here to assist."

Distinct spots of colour were rising in his cheeks. "It is - personal in nature."

 _Miracles will never cease,_ Anthea thought. She placed her hands quietly upon her lap.

"Please proceed, sir," she said, "recalling that your privacy is my greatest concern."

As he looked into her eyes, for the first time ever he seemed a little old to her - a little weary, a little grey.

"I ask only because I - I'm aware you've had a number of personal relationships during the course of your employment with me. Quite rightly, and they've been conducted with great discretion - and - you seem possessed of good sense in these regards."

It was true there'd been a handful of minor boyfriends over the years. None of them had been sufficiently interesting to be allowed to linger for long. Anthea had taken care to tidy any heartbreak away from her duties - and with regret, she'd perhaps been the instigator far more often than the recipient.

With a gentle expression, she said,

"I'm hardly an expert, Mr Holmes - but I'll share what I can."

He was silent for a while, greying further.

At last, quietly wetting his dry lips, he said,

"What differentiates a more casual arrangement from a formal relationship? What defines them from each other?"

_Oh god._

_Oh, Mr Holmes..._

Anthea breathed in, fighting to keep the rush of soft pity from her face. She took a moment to reassemble her thoughts.

"The - critical factor would be the mutual agreement of both participants," she said. Distress flickered across his gaze. "Unless, of course, a transition from one state to another is in process."

His grip visibly tightened on the edge of his desk.

"What characterises the transition?" he asked. "What - _changes,_ in order for an arrangement to be considered a relationship?"

Anthea considered the matter in silence for a while, desperate to say nothing which would hurt him.

"A casual arrangement will have sexual contact as its only real focus," she said. "A relationship includes other forms of intimacy."

His expression shifted. She watched him struggle with something, trying to decide and getting nowhere. _Most of your time with him is spent in bed,_ she deduced. _Sex is a safe focus for now._

"Is there - anything else?" he asked her, tentatively.

Anthea inhaled. "A casual partner won't participate in other aspects of one's life," she said. "They won't expect to hear updates on work, family, other interests... the connection is physical, rather than emotional."

Some quiet hope crossed his face; the sight twisted her heart.

"The public or private nature of the association will also differ," she said, with care. "A casual arrangement almost certainly won't be shared with friends or acquaintances, while a relationship might more commonly involve that. In time, at least."

His shoulders dropped.

"He..." He glanced down at his hands, lacing his fingers. "We are... our association is very private."

Anthea hesitated, her heart drumming against her ribs. The quiet seemed to gather around them, holding them safe in this conversation. "Is there exclusivity?"

He searched her eyes. "'Exclusivity'?"

Anthea opted for the simplest explanation. "Are either of you sleeping with anyone else?"

He paled. "I - can only provide one accurate set of data."

_You aren't. He might be._

"Do you _believe_ there is exclusivity?" she asked, with great care.

He took a moment to answer. The thought seemed to be causing him physical pain. "I hope so. But we have not discussed it. He - h-he could have other - "

Anthea nodded gently, sparing him from voicing it.

"Do you contact each other outside of your meetings?" she asked. "Casual texts... phone calls...?"

Mr Holmes's eyes clouded. He didn't answer, unable to bear it, and looked down at his hands once more. Anthea felt her spirits fall.

"Who initiates most of your meetings?" she asked him.

He thought about it, quietly moving his pen to align with the edge of his notebook.

"It seems equally balanced," he said after a while. "He suggested the arrangement between us. Since then I believe we've requested each other's company with comparative frequency."

"You asked him to Cliveden?"

In his distress, even the word hurt. She could see it in his eyes.

"He asked if I was available this weekend. I said it would be inconvenient for him, but if he wished to join me, he'd be welcome... he then offered to stay the second night, and I accepted - and then yesterday, I - I suppose I broached the subject of a third night, and he accepted..."

Anthea nodded, processing. She gave herself a moment to phrase something properly. "Three nights together would be unusual for a purely casual arrangement."

Something opened in his expression. "Would it?"

"Yes. I shan't pry for details, sir, but I've heard the two of you spent time together outside of your suite?"

He flushed.

"We took a walk," he said, "and ate dinner together before leaving."

"Did he express any hope to see you again shortly?"

"He said he would contact me."

"I see." Anthea almost wanted to take his hands. She wanted to hold them tightly, as she would for a female friend, and look into his eyes so he listened to her. It was fortunate the desk sat between them. "It will be quite normal if a few days now pass without contact. I appreciate it may hurt, but such a 'settling' period would be very standard and you should not worry."

He listened to her, pale, following her every word.

"Later in the week," she said, "it would be very reasonable for you to contact him on some small, casual matter. A social _'how are you'._ His response will be a good indicator of his intentions."

Mycroft scanned her eyes. "In what way?"

"If he's open to casual midweek contact, it suggests he'd be happy with more than a purely physical connection."

"What would that involve?"

"Well... dating, sir."

Her employer hesitated. "How would that be - different to - "

_God help me. You sweet man._

"It would traditionally include the things we've discussed. Time together outside the bedroom - perhaps a more public connection, at least to close friends and family - exclusivity - care and interest in each other's daily lives."

He nodded slowly.

"You're saying," he concluded, "that I require more data."

"Data is always useful, sir."

"Then I will be able to judge the situation with greater clarity."

"Yes."

"I'll have more insight into what he wants from me. Whether he would like to - to pursue - "

"Yes, sir. Starting with a casual text message will be very low risk, too. He'll either prove amenable, or he'll discreetly distance himself and you will at least have some clarity."

Mr Holmes shifted. He glanced down at his hands again, quietly adjusting his watch. "I'm sorry to trouble you with..."

Anthea felt her heart quicken.

"It's quite alright," she said. "Personal relationships are complex, and often subject to inexplicable rules. And your welfare is my profession, sir."

With care, she added,

"I imagine there'll be future developments in this - project, Mr Holmes. You should feel free to consult me when they occur."

Fresh colour rose in his complexion.

"Thank you." He hesitated, watching her get to her feet. "When should I...?"

"I'd recommend Thursday, around lunchtime."

"Lunchtime?"

Anthea explained. "Contact late in the afternoon or in the evening might be taken as a request to _meet,_ which - while pleasant - shan't provide any clarity. He's also likely to be busy in the morning, which might lead to your message being put aside or forgotten."

The very first beginning of a smile appeared.

"Inexplicable rules indeed," Mr Holmes remarked.

Anthea smiled in return.

"Inexplicable at close range," she assured him, moving her chair back under his desk. "Perspective is required to spot patterns. For what it's worth, he seems a very considerate and respectful man. I think you can take comfort in positive memories of your weekend."

Relief eased his gaze.

"Perhaps I will leave the Houghton report for the morning," he said, glancing at his open laptop. "I... might go home and rest."

 _Thank goodness._ "Shall I call us a car?"

"Yes... yes, that would be helpful. Thank you, Anthea."

"It's not a problem, Mr Holmes." She took his coat from the back of the door. "I'm glad to aid you."

 


	9. Casual Contact

Mycroft had never found a salad so unappetising in all his life. It sat largely untouched on his desk as he scrolled back through their previous messages, his heart thumping at the prospect of now adding a new one.

It was Thursday lunchtime, and it had pulled itself here by its fingernails.

 

**[21:16] go shmooze posh thing. Think about me. xxx**

 

This week his thoughts had drifted to Greg with only the slightest provocation - or sometimes none at all. He found himself reminded of Greg by things he'd never considered to bear any connection: laughter through an open doorway, music from passing cars, the sensation of stepping from his flat into morning sunlight. They seemed to evoke memories he didn't have yet. They made him feel like a part of a whole.

It was unsettlingly wonderful.

When he dressed in the morning, he thought of Greg in their suite, gently buttoning his waistcoat for him. When he ate, he thought of Greg feeding him gnocchi across a table. When he settled in bed at night, he thought of Greg there with him - kissing him, stroking his skin under his clothes - softly calling him 'sunshine'.

It hadn't been an easy three days. He'd checked his phone far more frequently than was dignified, hoping he'd be saved the turmoil and anxiety of this moment - but there'd been no contact from Greg.

He did his best to remind himself of Anthea's reassurances. Silence was an expected part of the proceedings: three days for them to orientate themselves into the working week, into the rhythms of their daily lives.

Now the next stage could begin - the collection of further data.

Greg's response to casual contact would indicate whether progress into an emotional bond would be welcome... or - as Mycroft feared - unwanted. Contacting Greg to ask for sex had been difficult enough. Contacting him _without_ asking for sex transpired to be twice as hard.

As Mycroft picked vaguely at his salad, rehearsing and then obliterating possible messages in his head, he wondered how a single marriage had ever come to be. He didn't understand how such a minefield of misunderstandings could be navigated safely.

It was now nearly quarter to one.

Any further procrastination would tip them into the afternoon, at which point Greg would likely return to his duties. If casual contact was to happen, it needed to happen now.

_Work, perhaps. A safe subject._

Gripping his fork rather hard, typing with the other hand, Mycroft composed a short message.

 

[12:43] _I hope you've had no further trouble from Ian Starr? MH_

 

He agonised over the ending for a further few minutes. En route to Cliveden, Greg had coaxed him into two anticipatory kisses per messages; it seemed excessive for a casual enquiry.

Mycroft added a single one, wincing, and hit send before he could rethink the matter.

 _And now occupation,_ he thought, putting the phone aside. _Lunch. Coffee. The report from the treasury._

_It doesn't matter if he replies._

He ate his salad without tasting a mouthful of it, rereading e-mails he'd answered hours ago.

 

*

 

The chime of Greg's phone registered in the back of his mind. Before he'd even recognised what it was, the young woman he was trying to restrain drove her elbow backwards into his groin.

Agony roiled through Greg's abdomen. He buckled, nausea bleaching his every thought. His grip on her slackened. She wrenched herself free, punching him across the face to break the last of his hold, then flew screaming across the kitchen at her boyfriend. The young man swore and kicked back at her, fighting the officer trying to hold him.

As uniformed constables ran to separate them, Greg sank to the grotty grey lino. Pain wracked through him in waves, dulling only to sharpen again at once.

Somewhere within the haze, as he fought to breathe and not throw up, there came Sally's voice.

"Greg - sir - you okay?"

Greg wretched, his ears ringing with the sound of the fight. The young woman was mother to one of Ian Starr's children. He and Sally had only come round to ask if she knew where he was living now; they'd arrived to find the sounds of a violent argument in full flow. A baby was still howling in the next room. Everything around him lurched as he tried to get up.

Sally pressed on his shoulder, forcing him to stay down. He obeyed, panting. Her radio crackled on the edge of his awareness.

"Back-up request for Buller Close - we need first aid for DI Lestrade."

 

*

 

At three o'clock, Anthea brought coffee. He hadn't asked for any.

As she put it down by his elbow, and rotated the handle towards him, she said, "Anything?"

Mycroft continued to read, unmoving.

"A busy afternoon, I imagine," she remarked.

Mycroft said nothing. He turned the page in his report, as silently as if he hadn't moved at all.

She let herself out.

 

*

 

Sally was waiting by the doors of A&E when they finally let him go. She was good enough not to mention his spectacular black eye, though her gaze lingered on his unsteady gait as he approached.

"You alright?" she asked, gingerly.

Greg inhaled.

"Bruising," he grunted. "Ice and painkillers."

"Ah..." Sally opened the door for him. "Take your time."

Greg lowered himself into the passenger seat, unable to restrain a wince. The pain was bad enough; the lingering nausea made it worse. He hoped no-one had any smart bloody comments to make back at the Yard. Groin injuries were hilarious until it was _your_ groin, at which point the urge to curl up in a ball somewhere very quiet took the humour out of the situation.

"Did the domestic get sorted out?" he asked, as Sally slid behind the wheel.

She sighed, slamming the door.

"As much as these things ever do," she said. "And after all that, no. She hasn't heard from Ian lately. Doesn't know where he is. Not sure why being the mother of one of his kids means she'd know anything of the sort."

As they set off, Greg remembered with a quiet flash the text message he'd received several hours ago now. He reached into his pocket for his phone, sliding it free.

_New Message from Mycroft Holmes._

His stomach squeezed at once.

Before he could open it, his phone began to buzz in his hand. His lock screen vanished. An incoming call wiped it clean; the control room were calling him.

"Jesus, what now..." he breathed, bracing himself. He hit the button to answer and held it to his ear.

"Yeah? ... no, I've just got out. Don't ask. What's wrong? ... you're not serious... _definitely_ him? ... yeah, that's him. Right. Tell Gill we're on our way."

He hung up and grabbed for his seat belt.

"Ian Starr," he said to Sally. "Fight at the Duke of Sussex. Friary Road. Get your foot down."

 

*

 

At eight o'clock, Anthea finally dared to make another check.

As soon as she opened the door, she knew. He was midway through a stack of reports, one hand supporting his head, the other annotating in utter silence with a red biro. His sleeves were rolled. His phone sat at the very furthest edge of his desk.

 _To stop yourself checking,_ she thought. _To put it out of your mind._

She knew exactly what he was feeling. God knew there were enough of them out there: men who were deliciously attentive in bed, then transformed into ghosts at any hint of real connection.

She didn't know what casual conversation Mr Holmes had attempted - but whatever it was, it hadn't been inviting enough to elicit a reply in seven hours.

It wasn't a fail, precisely.

But it was a badly missed opportunity.

She'd hoped Lestrade would jump at the chance. With a few casual texts, he could have shown Mr Holmes an invite to dinner would be welcome - and Anthea would have aided the man in that, encouraged Mr Holmes, reassured him Lestrade would be receptive.

Instead...

 _Perhaps for Lestrade it really is just physical._ She'd heard such glowing reports from Cliveden - and Lestrade had always seemed to her to be one of the nobler examples of his kind. Then, men were enigmatic creatures. Too often they were too distant from their own feelings. They lived a vague approximation of what seemed normal in a relationship, rather than what felt authentic; they took the presence of sex to mean everything was going handsomely. It meant that when finally asked to supply some authenticity, they could only offer bafflement and apathy.

_Better you find out now, sir. Little though it feels that way._

She kept her tone gentle and clean. "Is there anything you need before I go, Mr Holmes?"

He didn't raise his eyes from his report.

"No, Anthea." His voice came quiet in the silence. "Thank you."

"Would you like me to arrange a car for you?"

"No." He crossed something out in the report with a stroke of red. "I'll arrange it myself when I've finished."

Anthea nodded, numb. He wasn't one of her friends; she couldn't tell him she knew it hurt. She couldn't now invite him to a wine bar to put the entirety of his sex to rights.

Tomorrow, she'd distract him. The work would help - it always did.

For tonight, he'd just have to grieve.

"Good night, sir," she said. "I'll see you in the morning."

He said nothing, reading.

She closed the door behind her as she left.

 

*

 

After arrests, interviews, charges, cautions and paperwork, it was past nine before Greg reached the front door of his flat - and without anything but an enormous overtime bill to show for it. Ian Starr, if he'd been present at the Duke of Sussex when the fight kicked off, had left by the time they got there. Enough people had been involved in the brawl to make it an easy escape. A few witnesses said he'd definitely been there; a few were prepared to swear on the lives of their children that he hadn't been.

No-one had seen anything of him since.

Ian was keeping his head down this time. He'd learned. Though his ripples were being felt all across London, and Greg hadn't made it home before eight o'clock a single night this week, Ian himself remained beneath the surface, submerged and unseen. Only his shadow moved. Each time Greg reached for it, it was gone.

It worried him in ways he didn't want to think about.

"He'll mess up soon," Sally said, bracingly, as she pulled up outside Greg's door. "He'll lose his temper, forget he's trying to be a smart boy... s'only a matter of time."

Too tired to think anymore, Greg didn't reply. He'd continued to feel sick since leaving A&E. He didn't know if it was his injury or the fact he'd had no food since this morning. Sitting hurt. Standing hurt. Shifting to get out of the car hurt.

"Go get your ice and painkillers," Sally advised, giving him a tentative smile through the door. "I'll get the coffees tomorrow morning. See you, sir."

"Yeah, that's... that's fine. Night, Donovan."

Climbing the stairs was like climbing Everest. Greg had never realised he used his groin muscles to climb stairs, but Christ almighty. By the time he reached the second flight, each step felt like being elbowed again. Almost nauseous with the ache he unlocked the door of his flat, fumbling with the sticky key, begging it under his breath just to fucking let him in.

The sight of his unmade bed was as comforting as open arms.

Greg gave up at once on this day. He pushed off his shoes without untying the laces and left them by the door, unbuttoning his coat as he struggled across the room.

As he dropped it beside the bed, there came a soft muffled clunk.

It took Greg a second to realise. _Shit, my phone._

The memory returned with a flash.

_Oh - shit -_

_Mycroft -_

He almost couldn't believe that was today. It felt like months ago. He'd spent this whole week agonising, wondering if it was fine just to text and chat, or if he was opening himself to a whole world of inevitable pain. _We're friends, too,_ he'd tried to kid himself - then realised he didn't want to text Mycroft as a friend.

He wanted to text Mycroft because he had feelings for him.

And that would only lead to one place: an awkward conversation where Mycroft explained the importance of his work, and how he hadn't really time for emotional commitments at the moment - and Greg could already see the slight frown Mycroft would wear, as if uncertain why Greg had proposed something comfortably casual, only to announce he now wanted roses and candlelight - and that would be the last conversation they had - and everything would come to an end.

At least this way, there was closeness of some kind. At least he got to see Mycroft.

Crouching down to find the pockets of his coat, Greg twitched with the sharp flash of pain it caused. He ignored it, searching, panting a little as it worsened, then finally got hold of his phone.

He sat down on the bed to read the message, his breath tight.

 

[12:43] _I hope you've had no further trouble from Ian Starr? MH x_

 

Greg's throat thickened.

He glanced at the time on his phone. Over eight hours ago now. Mycroft would have given up on him replying. He'd be wondering what gave Greg the right to play cold, when it was nice of Mycroft even to ask.

Mycroft was managing to be friends here, not just fuck friends.

It was Greg's fault he'd let himself fall too far.

Tentatively, feeling oddly lonely in the dark, he typed out a reply.

 

**[21:13] not going great tbh. Only just in from work. Sorry not to text back sooner, been a long bloody day. In A &E for half of it. Hope you are well xx **

 

As soon as he hit send, Greg regretted the kisses with a groan. He wasn't thinking straight; he needed painkillers and food and sleep, not awkward texting. _Too late now,_ he thought miserably, staring at the screen. _Too bloody late._

He covered his eyes with his hands, rubbing them hard. _Put the phone down and get in the shower, idiot. You can ruin your social life in the morning._

His phone buzzed against his knee.

 

[21:14] _A &E? As a patient? MH xx _

 

Greg didn't breathe as he replied.

 

**[21:14] got caught up in a domestic this morning. Nothing serious xx**

 

Mycroft saw the text straight away.

He was watching the window. He was sitting somewhere across the city, holding his phone, and all his focus in this moment was on Greg.

The thought was so comforting Greg found himself suddenly close to tears.

 

[21:14] _Are you alright? MH xx_

**[21:15] fine, just sore. Line of duty... feeling a bit worn down if i'm honest. Been one of those weeks. One thing after another haha. how are you? xx**

[21:16] _I'm well. I hope you're not injured and on your own. Have you at least been given proper painkillers? MH xx_

**[21:16] yeah due some soon. Best get my lazy arse up and make food to have with them. Not sure I can move lol. Good week so far? xx**

 

No response came. Greg watched the message window nervously, lying on his bed in the darkness as his groin throbbed in discomfort. _Have I said something wrong?_ He read back through the short conversation, trying to see where he'd messed up.

 _Whining on,_ he thought. _Complaining about my job, when I've got no idea what he goes through._

His phone began to ring.

"Jesus," Greg whispered, staring at the screen. _Incoming Call from Mycroft Holmes._ He swallowed, took a second to settle himself, then answered the call with an attempt at casual friendliness. "H-Hi."

_Great. Well done, Lestrade._

The sound of Mycroft's voice made his chest ache.

"Forgive a suspicious mind," Mycroft murmured, and Greg closed his eyes, ignoring the heat which rose behind them at once. _Fuck, I miss you. I want to go back to Cliveden. I want to go back._ "I wasn't certain I could take your reassurances at face value... _are_ you alright?"

_Christ, I... I shouldn't be leaning on you for this. I shouldn't be putting you in this position. You're my sex friend. Not my boyfriend. What the hell am I doing?_

"I'm - "

_Fuck - say something -_

Greg's voice cracked.

"I-I'm just... tired, Mycroft, s'all. It's fine."

_Oh Jesus, don't let me cry. Don't let me cry all over you._

"S-Sorry. _Wow._ Shit week. Should've had my painkillers by now. I'll go make food and take them - s-sorry to - "

"Are you at home?" Mycroft asked. Greg screwed his eyes shut; further heat welled behind his eyelids.

"Y-Yeah. Listen," he said, breathing in, "i-ignore me. I just had a bad day, and I'm a soft bastard. That's all. P-Pulling myself together now."

"Would it help," Mycroft asked, "if I brought food to you?"

Greg's heart twisted itself into two.

_Fuck._

_Fuck. Come look after me. Please._

"S-Shit," he whispered, pressing hard at the bridge of his nose. "Shit. Shit, shit."

"Greg?"

It hurt to speak. It hurt like hell; it would hurt more not to say. "C-Could you - come here please? If it's not a problem - Jesus, I'm sorry - "

"I'll be there shortly," Mycroft said at once. Greg shuddered in silence, trying to keep his breathing slow. "I'll bring food with me. There's no need whatsoever to apologise. Are you somewhere comfortable?"

"Y-Yeah. Yeah, I'm j-just in bed. Lying down."

"Please stay there until I reach you," Mycroft said. Greg heard the slam of a door, the rattle of keys. "Read something quietly on your phone and rest. I'll be with you as soon as I can."

 


	10. Fuss

By the time Mycroft reached Barking, he'd received three more texts.

 

**[21:20] I'm really sorry to put you out like this, I mean it :(**

**[21:32] thank you for letting me be a nightmare xx**

**[21:41] i'm a crap mess today, I'm sorry xxx**

 

He responded while sitting in the Indian restaurant below Greg's flat, waiting to collect their food. He was by far the most overdressed person in the Eastern Paradise, and receiving dubious glances for his three-piece suit and tie.

He didn't care in the slightest.

 

[21:48] _I'll be with you in just a few minutes. No apologies necessary. Will you please unlock your door for me? MH xx_

 

Greg's reply arrived as he made his way up the stairs, carrying their food.

 

**[21:54] its open... I'm still sorry :( xxx**

 

Mycroft felt his heart strain gently with distress. He wasn't quite sure what to expect - but Greg's guilt at reaching for help left him feeling uncharacteristically weak. Reaching the door, he knocked quietly and admitted himself.

It wasn't a large flat by any means, with a lack of tidiness that could be forgiven of a forty-something man living on his own - but it seemed quietly comfortable. As Mycroft stepped through the door, he became aware of the warm and human scent he associated with Greg. He realised with a hitch of his pulse how desperately he'd missed it.

Movement across the room called his eyes.

As he looked across, he found Greg gazing sadly at him from the bed, sporting a stupendous black eye.

Mycroft's heart heaved against his ribs.

"Greg..." he breathed, abandoning the carrier bag of food on the kitchen counter. He moved over to the bed at once. "Greg, what have you done to yourself? Let me see..."

Greg's pained shift alerted Mycroft to the presence of further injuries.

"S'not that bad," he tried, as Mycroft knelt on the side of the bed and cupped his face, studying the mark in quiet distress. "S-Should've just had my painkillers. M'sorry. I'm making a fuss over nothing."

"Hush," Mycroft murmured, and without a thought pressed a kiss between Greg's eyes. It felt like the most natural gesture in the world. His heart thumped as he watched Greg's eyes close in response. "I reject your apology outright... it is entirely unneeded. Where else are you injured?"

Greg's expression shifted. Embarrassment dropped his gaze.

"I, erm - took an elbow to the groin," he said. "S'just bruised. A&E said I'll be fine. But it's - it's k-kinda sore to move..."

"Of course it is," Mycroft whispered between his eyes. He laid another gentle kiss there. "Please refrain from moving anymore than you must. Rest here, mm? I will plate up our food."

"You - h-haven't eaten?"

"I was working late this evening," Mycroft said, ignoring the flutter in his stomach. _To forget you. To convince myself I did not care._ He moved over to the kitchen area, found plates in the first cupboard he checked, and laid two out on the cramped counter. "Will you be more comfortable in pyjamas?"

"Erm - m-maybe, yeah..."

"I'll help you to change once you've eaten."

As he heard Greg's voice break, he fought to keep the rush of answering emotion off his face.

"Mycroft, I - I really appreciate... y-you're really kind to be here. Thank you."

It was easier to settle himself while occupied. Mycroft opened the container of pilau rice, checked drawers until he found a spoon, and began to divide the container in two.

"It's not an inconvenience, Greg," he said. "I'd much rather be certain you're comfortable." He didn't know if he dared to ask; in the end, his heart was beating too hard not to. "Did your colleagues not check to see you had everything you need before leaving you?"

"It's - i-it's not really that kind of... s'just _'get on with the job',_ you know? Been driving them with a whip all week. Already blown my overtime budget. Ian fucking Starr. And I - I didn't want them to think - J-Jesus, it's so stupid. Elbowed in the groin and a bit tired, and m'lying here crying."

 _You didn't wish them to think you weak,_ Mycroft thought.

_But you'll show it to me._

Quietly swallowing what felt like his heart, he transferred samosas from the foil dish to Greg's plate.

"It is not stupid," he said, when he could. "Anyone who has suffered the same injury would agree with me at once. If you are already exhausted, pain will damage your ability to cope." _And I will restore it._

As he carried the full plate towards the bed, Greg watched his approach with rounded, gleaming eyes. The poor man looked tired to the soul; he was more emotional than Mycroft had ever seen him. It was rare for Mycroft to see this sort of fragility in anyone, he realised. They didn't tend to show it to him.

He laid the plate within Greg's reach, sitting down on the side of the bed.

"W-What about yours?" Greg said, nervously shuffling close.

Mycroft reached a hand through instinct to his hair. He stroked back the soft shock of grey, watching Greg reach for a samosa.

"I'd like to see you eat a little, first. I'll bring my food with your painkillers."

Greg acquiesced, too weak to mount any protest. As he crunched quietly into the samosa, Mycroft watched his eyes close in relief. A shudder passed through his shoulders. _You poor fool... you're half-starved._ Greg chewed, visibly shivering as Mycroft brushed through his hair.

When he'd seen several spoonfuls of chicken makhani past Greg's lips, Mycroft leant down and kissed the top of his head.

"I won't be a moment," he murmured. "Keep eating." He got up and returned to the kitchen area.

He didn't touch his own food until he'd seen Greg take the painkillers and finish the glass of water.

"Here," Greg said, shifting to make room for Mycroft to lie with him. His face tightened. "Y-You should - "

Mycroft placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Stay precisely as you are," he said. "I'm happy to sit."

Greg's eyes flickered up into his, anxious. "Are you sure?"

"Entirely sure." Mycroft guided his plate nearer to him. "A little more of this, please. I appreciate the need for stoicism and self-sacrifice in front of your colleagues, but I'd personally rather see some self-care."

Embarrassment softened Greg's expression.

"M'sorry," he mumbled.

"Please don't be." _You reached for me. You were distressed, and you reached for me. You wanted me._ "When you've cleared your plate, I'll help you to change. Will a shower relax you?"

"J-Jesus. Yeah, that - that'd be..."

"Then I'll run you a shower." As Greg ate another spoonful of food, Mycroft watched him gently. He'd forgotten the plate on his lap. "I imagine a good night's sleep will take care of the rest... alarms on your phone tomorrow, please, to remind you to take painkillers. Carry a sandwich with you to eat as needed."

Greg swallowed his mouthful, shivering. "Mycroft... I..."

"You're only going to apologise or thank me, Greg. Neither is necessary. Would you like some more water?"

He watched Greg flush. "Eat _your_ food first."

Mycroft smiled.

He put his plate aside, and reached for the empty glass by the bed.

"If it settles you," he said, hearing Greg start to protest, "shall we consider you under a debt of reciprocation?"

Greg's eyes rounded. "What d'you mean?" he asked.

"It means I'm permitted," Mycroft said, "at some point of my choosing in the future, to summon you gallantly to my aid."

A glitter filled Greg's gaze. The smile which broke out, though small, was incredibly heartening to see. Even with the black eye, Greg was astonishingly handsome. Seeing him so vulnerable had only reinforced the impression.

"And you will arrive," Mycroft went on, smiling, "with Indian food, painkillers and sympathy - or whatever else I happen to require at the time - and I can expect lavish amounts of fuss and attention to soothe whatever vexes me. I should warn you I'm greatly fond of both."

Greg's smile grew, his eyes bright and soft. "D-Deal," he said. "I'll be there. Promise."

Mycroft felt his heart squeeze behind his ribs.

"There." He leant low, gently kissing between Greg's eyes. _Why do I have such a need to kiss you here today? Why does it feel so right?_ He couldn't bring himself not to. Cupped Greg's cheek, he murmured against his forehead. "Now settle, please... it's merely your turn for fuss. You can have as much of it as you wish."

Before he could draw away, he caught Greg's hesitation. He paused, expecting some other request - but the quiet lingered between them.

Tentative fingertips then touched his jaw.

With a thump of the heart, Mycroft realised.

_You - you wish to..._

He felt Greg breathe in.

Gentle lips pressed nervously against his own - as softly as if they'd never done this; as hesitant as if they were shy teenagers outside a cinema somewhere.

Fondness fluttered through Mycroft's soul.

 _Don't be afraid,_ he wanted to whisper. He leant into the kiss, stroking his thumb over Greg's cheek. Their lips sealed. _You can't imagine how much I'd give to you. What I'd be for you, if you asked. You would never hesitate to kiss me if you knew._

He let their lips gently stroke until his neck begged against the uncomfortable angle.

As they parted, they both exhaled.

Greg shook slightly, swallowing. He lowered his eyes.

"Was that - alright?" he said.

Every corner of Mycroft's soul ached. "Yes," he whispered. He kissed Greg's mouth once more, his eyes closing. He felt Greg tremble. "I want to be what you need, Greg. You've had a trying day."

He hesitated, holding onto the words.

"We are friends," he said gently, "after all."

A moment passed.

Greg's fingers curled in his hair.

"Th-thank you, Mycroft. For being here."

Mycroft realised he hadn't felt his heart beat in over a minute.

"Let me fill this glass for you," he said. He found himself proud of the steadiness of his voice. "Have a little more food, please. It will help."

 

*

 

The shower hushed softly against the curtain. They stood by the side of the bath to undress Greg, a single silhouette in the light of pillar candles in the window. Mycroft drew him close, gentling him with kisses as they worked their way through buttons together, loosening fabric and easing it gently away. Sinking to his knees, he helped Greg step from his trousers and boxers; Greg's steadying hand on his shoulder made his heart tighten.

The bruising extended just above the dark cover of Greg's hair, a purple-grey bloom which was already yellowing at the edges. It was uncomfortable even to see. Greg's assailant had hurt him with full commitment to what she was doing.

"I'm so sorry," Mycroft murmured. He gently kissed the skin nearby, pressing his lips beneath Greg's navel. "It will feel more comfortable in the morning, I'm sure."

"Hope so," Greg said, weakly. He touched Mycroft's hair, brushing a few strands back from his forehead.

Mycroft looked up. He turned his head into Greg's palm, and kissed his wrist. "They will fade," he promised. "Rest will help."

As he rose to his feet, Greg leant close to him again. He wrapped his arms around Greg and held him, hands flat to his back above the waist. They kissed, slowly, taking their time.

Mycroft only realised after three open buttons.

"I'm joining you, am I?" he murmured, as Greg quietly slid open the next.

Greg's lips brushed his mouth, as soft as the spray of the shower. "You said you'd be what I need."

"Indeed I did..." Mycroft glanced down between them, watching Greg unbuttoning his shirt. "I can steady you, I suppose... help you in."

Greg made a quiet sound of agreement. "S'gonna hurt. Not looking forward to it."

"Are your painkillers making a difference yet?"

"I think they're kicking in." Greg slipped apart the last button, easing the fabric open across Mycroft's chest. His hands brushed Mycroft's skin with slow familiarity, following the paths of his body. _As if you missed me,_ Mycroft thought. _As if you want to remember._ "M'glad you're here," Greg mumbled, and leant into his body. His head rested against Mycroft's shoulder. "Thank you."

Mycroft kissed the top of his head, his pulse lifting.

"You seem a little calmer," he said, as Greg slid his shirt down his arms for him.

"I feel it." Greg freed each wrist from his cuffs and laid his shirt aside on the radiator. The bathroom was so compact he barely needed to turn. "M'I still allowed fuss if I'm feeling better?"

 _Without hesitation._ "Like antibiotics, I think. 'Finish the course'."

"Mhm." Greg's arms looped slowly around Mycroft's waist, settling into the warmth of his body. As he nuzzled beneath Mycroft's chin, Mycroft had never been so aware nor so glad of their height difference. It made him feel strangely, deeply protective. "Christ... y-you smell amazing..."

Mycroft inhaled, tightening his arms. "Do I?"

"Yeah. I - k-kinda missed it... being close to you." Greg hesitated, breathing in. He reached for Mycroft's belt. "Let's get clean."

Mycroft stepped into the shower first. He braced Greg's weight on his forearms, made sure he had a solid grip, and eased him over the side of the bath with care.

He felt each twitch as if it were his own.

"Come here," he murmured at once, drawing Greg into his arms. "Lean against me... is it very sore?"

Greg shivered, resting against his shoulder as Mycroft adjusted the spray above them.

"Only when I move," he mumbled. "S'okay when I stay still or lie down."

"You'll be back in bed soon," Mycroft promised as the water rained from above, wetting their skin and their hair. He held Greg close to his chest, shielding his face from the spray with a kiss to the forehead. "We'll wash the day from you, then settle you to sleep. Your body can repair itself while you rest."

He felt Greg pause, nuzzling into his neck.

"When I'm asleep," Greg asked, "what'll you do?"

Mycroft attempted to respond as if the outcome didn't affect him either way. "Depending on your wishes, I'll either leave you to sleep - or, if you'd prefer to have someone here, I will sleep beside you."

Greg's fingers pressed gently into his back. "Would that be a problem?"

_Dear god. Never._

"No," Mycroft said. He reached for a nearby bottle of shampoo. "I'm happy to stay. Whatever you need, Greg."

As he washed Greg's hair gently, they softened into kissing once more. The feel of Greg's body warm and wet against his own, Greg's lips searching with hope for his kisses, had an irrepressible effect on Mycroft's body that Greg was gracious enough to ignore - the last thing Greg would want or need in his state of injury was someone else's sexual interest to deal with. They showered carefully, washing each other's skin and only breaking the quiet cuddle with necessity. Mycroft wasn't sure he ever wanted to let Greg go again.

Stepping out of the bath seemed easier for Greg - his movements were less wary, his grip less tight. There was calm in his face, not distress.

"Your painkillers seem to be working," Mycroft said softly, reaching for a towel from the radiator.

Greg nodded, nestling back into his arms. "M'f-feeling better. Feel safe."

_Safe._

"Good." Mycroft kissed the top of his head, enjoying his clean wet hair and the scent of shampoo. "It seems I'm useful for something."

"You're useful for a lot of things."

"Mm?"

Greg kissed the trail of freckles over his shoulder. "You are to me."

Gathering the towel around Greg, Mycroft took a moment to loosen the knot in his throat. He couldn't do much to dry Greg while cuddling except rub his back - inefficient, but Greg seemed to want skin contact more than he wished to be dry.

Only when Greg began to shiver did Mycroft end their quiet embrace, run the towel once last time over them both, and guide Greg gently to bed.

They settled beneath the covers together, turned out the lights and nestled very close in the darkness. The shower had left Greg's skin as soft and clean and tactile as anything Mycroft had ever felt. It was impossible not to stroke him. He wanted to kiss Mycroft, and he wanted their bodies in contact, and the warm hug of covers all around them was raising thoughts in Mycroft's mind he felt guilty at once for having.

Greg's hands wandered gently down his stomach, brushing over the softer and more intimate skin beneath his navel.

His heart tightened.

"You have a groin injury," he said at once, cursing the slight snap of his breath.

Greg mouthed gently at his jaw. His hopeful fingertips slid lower, reaching the edge of Mycroft's hair. "You don't," he murmured, petting.

Mycroft inhaled. "Greg - "

"I'll be okay, if nothing presses on the bruising..." Greg wrapped a hand around his cock, gently squeezing its growing firmness; Mycroft felt his pulse lurch. "If we... just like this, maybe... just touch..."

_God almighty._

"I-I couldn't bear to hurt you," Mycroft said. The light stroking felt divine. His body ached with it, his cock filling out more and more. "I'd never forgive myself."

"S'okay, darlin'..." Greg began to ease his way down the bed, brushing kisses over Mycroft's chest and stomach. He nuzzled Mycroft over onto his back. "Nothing the matter with my mouth."

Mycroft swallowed. He knew he should insist - should protest the possibility of anything which might cause Greg even a split second's discomfort - but as Greg reached his swollen cock, hummed gently and stroked a long lick along the underside, his ability to resist evaporated. He shuddered, watching nervously down the bed as Greg became reacquainted with him - slow sweeps of tongue, open-mouthed kisses and lazy nuzzles - soft dark eyes, gazing up the bed at him, holding his gaze, reassuring him. Even with the black eye, he was intoxicatingly beautiful.

As Greg's mouth enveloped him, Mycroft felt the last of his resolve crumble. He released a faint moan, his eyes closing, breath tightening with the sensation of slickness and heat and the curl of an experienced tongue. Greg had always been distressingly good at this. He now knew Mycroft's body, and had become even better. He tended to Mycroft's cock as if they laid here every night, taking his time to wind Mycroft slowly tighter. He varied the movements of his tongue, never letting his rhythm grow too steady, and he soothed the deepening tremors of Mycroft's thighs with his fingertips. Contentment softened his features as he worked; he was enjoying this. Sucking Mycroft's cock was comforting.

Mycroft couldn't stop gazing at him.

He was beautiful in ways other people never had been. _It makes him happy to make me happy._ He didn't want Mycroft for favour, for advancement or gain. He just wanted the chance to bring him pleasure, even injured and exhausted. Mycroft's helpless moans were sought like painkillers, hot food and a shower.

As Mycroft surrendered at last to the need to rock, to reach for the pleasure he could feel just a breath away, Greg made a muffled sound of longing around his cock. His hands wrapped beneath Mycroft's open thighs and took hold of his hips, encouraging the movement, wanting him to chase. Mycroft's choked groan petered into a whimper. He came panting, thrusting gently into Greg's mouth with one hand buried in that beautiful grey hair. He felt Greg swallow every drop of him, nuzzling into Mycroft's groin with a shiver.

Greg was trembling as he crawled back up the bed.

Mycroft drew him close at once. He turned Greg onto his back with the utmost care, leant down to kiss his perfect mouth, and felt the desperate sound Greg emitted light his soul in a flash. Greg's shaking fingers found his hand beneath the sheets, pulling it where it was needed.

"You will stop me the _instant_ I hurt you," he breathed against Greg's lips, curling his grip around his cock.

Greg's expression contracted. "You won't," he gasped, arching. He tipped his head back into the pillows as Mycroft began to stroke him, the quick and tight pulls he always enjoyed. "Fuck - _please_ \- please like that - "

Mycroft stroked back Greg's hair with the other hand, gazing into his face as he worked his cock. _Like that, darling. Relax. I know what you need. Let me bring it to you._

Greg stared back into his eyes, his pupils swollen, panting.

"Fuck," he whimpered, biting into his lip. Colour flooded his face. "F-Fuck - can you - "

"Tell me, sweetheart."

"L-Lube - " Greg's eyes flashed towards the bedside. "I-In the..."

Mycroft reached across.

The tube was the one Greg had brought to Cliveden, a cooling gel with mint in its formula. Its soft peppermint scent overwhelmed Mycroft's senses as he pooled it in his hand, transporting him at once back to their suite and to the noises Greg had made there.

Greg was remembering, too.

Mycroft could see it in his eyes.

He began to stroke with the lubricant, spreading it slickly from root to tip, squeezing a little to let Greg push through his grasp. Greg shuddered, panting; pleasure wracked his face.

"Ohh - _Christ_ \- " His voice cut and he whimpered, his head dropping back into the pillow. "Y-You're so good at this - "

Mycroft leant down to the beautiful exposed length of his throat, gliding his tongue along it in a wet stripe.

Greg's pitched cry made him ache.

"Fuck, _fuck,"_ he gasped, and Mycroft felt his thighs spread beneath the sheets. "P-Please - please can - "

Mycroft understood. As he worked Greg's cock with the same tight strokes, he reached down and gathered Greg's balls into one hand, massaging them slowly, rolling them in his palm - then finally easing Greg with the gentle tugs he loved.

Greg's back arched from the mattress.

"Ohh, _fuck...!"_ He screwed his head into the pillow, panting, heat blazing across his face. "Ohh - _fuck_ \- "

Wet warmth flooded between Mycroft's fingers. Mycroft watched in raptures as Greg's face scrunched with pleasure, his mouth opening in the silent cry now shattering through him. He kept his hand moving, coating Greg slowly with his ejaculate until he saw the handsome features slacken in relief, the silence breaking into panted moans. He slowed his hand at once; he leant down, meeting Greg's desperate post-coital kiss before it could even be requested.

Greg's fingers feathered through his hair, shaking.

Their breathing slowly settled into quiet.

When he'd regained the strength to move, Mycroft went briefly to the bathroom for a washcloth. He gathered Greg close to his chest and cleaned off his cock and his stomach with care.

Greg barely stirred. He was drifting close to sleep already, overcome with hormones and relief. Orgasm had done more to ensure him a good night's rest than any sleeping pills ever would.

Mycroft cradled him as he cleaned him, kissing his forehead - then tossed the cloth away into the bathroom. It could be dealt with tomorrow.

For now, he didn't intend to move again until the morning.

"You 'kay?" Greg mumbled, as Mycroft drew the covers up around him.

Mycroft kissed between his eyes. "Perfectly happy," he murmured, his voice low in his throat after sex. "Now promise me I didn't hurt you."

Greg smiled, nestling closer.

"Mhm. Promise. Gentle with me."

"I'm justifying to myself that was medicinal, and you will sleep better..."

Greg's eyes sparkled. "Can I have another dose in the morning?"

"Beast..." Mycroft stroked back his hair, laying a gentle kiss upon his hairline. "Of painkillers, yes. You certainly can."

Greg bit his lip. "What about another dose of you?"

"If you're a good boy and take your painkillers without fuss, yes."

"Mhm. Seems fair." Greg stirred, one arm wrapping around Mycroft's waist. "Thank you for coming to look after me. I mean it."

"I'm glad you feel better," Mycroft said. He paused, retaining the thought for a moment. He didn't know if it was a sentiment too far. "I like your company very much, Greg. It's no hardship to be with you."

"Yeah?" He felt Greg hesitate, cheek pressed to Mycroft's shoulder. "I'm... not overstepping our - ?"

 _Please. Please overstep it._ "No. No, I'm - very happy, Greg."

"With how things are?"

"Yes," said Mycroft. "I - hope you're happy, too. I hope you wish to continue our association."

Greg's eyelashes brushed his neck.

"Yeah," he said. Mycroft's heart tightened. "Yeah, darlin'. I like what we've got. It - works for you, does it? Just like this?"

_Oh god, I want you to be mine._

_I don't even know what it would involve. I don't know how it would be different, how it would feel, but... just knowing - knowing you care for me, belong to me, wish to stay with me..._

Mycroft forced himself to speak, feeling as if he were teetering on the edge of a precipice.

"I'm glad you reached for me tonight," he said. "I'm glad you contacted me. If you need someone in this way again, I - hope you know I'd be here for you, Greg. I appreciate the chance to support you."

He felt Greg begin to stroke between his shoulders.

"Can I text you?" he asked, and Mycroft's heart detonated on the spot. "During the week, I mean? Just... check in on each other. Touch base."

 _Oh god._ "Yes, I - I think that would be fine."

"I won't bombard you, I promise. I know you're busy."

_I would discard it all for you. I would find the time. I would bring it into being out of nothing, just to give it to you. If you wanted me to come home at six o'clock every night, I'd find a way._

"I'd like to hear from you," Mycroft said, and gently kissed Greg's temple. "I'd enjoy that."

There was quiet for a while, as they laid in silence and stroked each other slowly.

Mycroft could feel a question trying to wrestle its way out of his throat. Realising he wouldn't sleep unless he asked, he thought of Anthea - of what he would say to her tomorrow, regarding this evening - and he found the courage.

"Greg?"

"Mhm, love?"

Mycroft ignored the contraction of his heart. "May I ask you something?"

"S-Sure." _Why did your voice skip? What are you concerned I am about to ask?_ "Go on. M'here."

There was no retreat now. Mycroft told himself there were other reasons he might ask this - health, security - reasonable curiosity - and asked.

"Are you - sleeping with other people?"

There was a long, nervous silence. Greg placed a small kiss against his neck.

"No," he said, at last. "Not right now. I'm - busy enough with work, to be honest. Barely even have time to do my laundry."

_'Not right now'._

Mycroft found himself unable to respond. He kept stroking the back of Greg's hair, trying to act as if the answer had only vaguely interested him.

"Is that alright?" Greg said, after a moment. "It's not - ... don't feel pressured by that. It's just circumstances. M'not pushing for any kind of... commitment. You and me."

_Oh._

"I merely wondered," Mycroft said. It seemed the right thing to say. "I - like seeing you, Greg. This suits me very well."

"I like seeing you, too." Greg's arms tightened. "I don't want things to change."

Mycroft said nothing, brushing his hair slowly. He barely felt the strands between his fingertips.

"Have I freaked you out?" Greg asked.

Mycroft surfaced from his thoughts; his body felt as if it were empty, just hollow space where he should be. "Why would you have 'freaked me out'?"

"Promise?"

"Yes, I - promise. But why would - "

"S-Sorry. M'clumsy with this stuff. Just - I like you. You like me. S'all we need, right?" Greg pressed his cheek to Mycroft's, hugging him. "Things are better simple."

The words felt like a rejection; the hug felt like a plea.

Mycroft closed his eyes.

_I don't understand. This is too much data._

_But I will understand - and with help I will process it - and for tonight you still seem to want to hold me, and that is enough._

His throat still ached with words unsaid. He tried to ignore them, holding Greg tighter, relieved and distressed in equal measure as Greg pulled him close to kiss him.

_Do you want to kiss me? Or do you want me to stop talking?_

_Oh god. It doesn't matter. You are here and you are kissing me, and there is no-one else to occupy your interest at this time. That can only be a good thing._

_And Anthea will understand._

When their lips parted, Greg's fingers seemed to be shaking a little.

Their noses rubbed in the darkness.

"No worries, darlin'," he said. "Let's keep it easy."

_God help me._

_This is 'easy'._

Mycroft guided Greg's head to his shoulder, as if he simply wished to settle to sleep. He didn't want Greg to notice the gloss to his eyes in the darkness, nor any hint of distress in his face. He didn't know if there even _was_ a reason to be distressed. He felt that way all the same.

For fear that any other words would show more of his soul than he wanted to be seen, Mycroft said what seemed safe and easy.

"You should rest, Greg." _Please, please do not end this._ "I'm happy with how things are. Very happy."

"Me too. M'glad we have this." Greg hesitated. "Sleep tight, Myc."

Mycroft wasn't sure how much longer he stayed awake. It could easily have been another hour, his thoughts drifting without rest from one thing Greg had said to the next. He finally forced himself to focus not on his panicked analysis, but on committing them to memory for someone more qualified in these matters to study.

He tried to sleep, unmoving in the dark, his breathing slow and his thoughts still in chaos.

He was kept awake by the strange conviction Greg too laid unsleeping. He didn't know what made him think it. Greg seemed to be dreaming soundlessly, quiet and still against his chest. He didn't dare to ask. He didn't want to wake Greg if he _was_ asleep, thereby revealing that he himself had laid here in turmoil long into the night.

It was some time before rest finally came - and when it did, it was not restful.

 


	11. Digital Parlance

[06:04] _Good morning. Pick-up at 394 Ripple Road in Barking if you would. No earlier than 8am. MH_

**[06:07] Sorry sir, is that address correct? Appears to be an indian restaurant. A**

[06:13] _I will be waiting outside the indian restaurant. MH_

**[06:14] The Eastern Paradise doesn't seem to be listed as one of your registered secure residences. A**

[06:18] _There were extenuating circumstances. I am perfectly safe. Pick-up at 8am please. MH_

**[06:19] Are these extenuating circumstances also known as GL? A**

[06:19] _Yes. MH_

**[06:20] Hope all is well. A**

[06:20] _Pick up at 8am. MH_

 

*

 

Anthea was fully-prepared as Mr Holmes stepped into the car. She guided a large takeaway coffee into his hands, snapped shut the privacy screen and said,

"We haven't long. The chancellor has moved your meeting with him to nine o'clock - "

" - oh, for the love of - "

" - yes, I know - and you have your usual Friday with the PM at eleven, and I'll need to brief you on the Sarajevo developments before then. Now _what happened?"_

He looked down at his coffee cup, steeling himself. It took him a moment to speak.

"I... haven't the faintest clue," he said.

Anthea held in a sigh. "You'd better start from the top," she said, and cracked the lid from her coffee to speed its cooling. "I'm assuming he eventually replied to your text?"

The car set off with a gentle jolt.

"Yes," her employer said. "Late. He'd had an intensely busy day, including a visit to Accident and Emergency."

"To - A&E?"

"He'd sustained a black eye and a groin injury while attending a work incident. Since that time he'd neglected to take his painkillers and consequently become very distressed."

 _Oh god._ "He rang you for help?"

Mr Holmes flushed. "I - rang _him,"_ he said. "I suspected his texts were masking the extent of his discomfort, and I was correct."

"So - you offered to - "

"In a way," he said, uneasily. "I offered to bring him food. He then asked me to come over."

Anthea thought quickly.

"Okay... okay, I see." Lestrade would almost certainly have other social contacts - friends, family - other people he might have relied on for assistance. She remembered briefly some of the gentlemen with whom she'd shared a purely casual arrangement, and imagined asking them to bring her food following a miserable afternoon in A&E.

She looked her employer in the eye.

"I think it's a good sign he contacted you," she said. "A _very_ good sign, sir. That sort of comfort in relying on you indicates..."

No joy lightened his expression.

Anthea's heart fell. "Oh god."

He winced. "I'm not certain where to begin."

That wasn't good. "Let's proceed chronologically," she said, willing herself - and him - to remain calm. "You arrived at his flat."

"Y-Yes. He was very distressed and uncomfortable. He hadn't eaten."

Again, Anthea imagined herself in discomfort after a hospital visit, in need of food and comfort, and ran through her mind the very small number of people she would wish to see her in that condition. Sex friends were not among them.

"He felt guilty for summoning me," Mycroft added. Anthea processed this, nodding. "I reassured him, and encouraged him to eat... I brought painkillers to him. He was very fragile and nervous, and I tried to comfort him by suggesting some manner of reciprocation in the future."

Anthea's heart tightened. "How did he respond?"

"Favourably," Mr Holmes said. "He agreed. And he settled, certainly." A little colour rose in his face. "He - wanted to kiss me. He asked if it was alright."

 _God. Oh god._ "Mr Holmes, my next question might be indelicate."

He braced himself, shivering. "Such is this entire situation."

"Was this kissing as a preface to sexual activity?"

"No," he said. He took a nervous drink of coffee. "Very much not. It - seemed to be as comfort. Reassurance that our previously affectionate manner with each other was to be considered current. Afterwards we continued eating."

Anthea couldn't keep the small leap of excitement off her face. "Sir, that sounds very hopeful."

He flushed desperately. "S-So I thought."

 _'Thought'._ "What happened next?"

Mr Holmes took another drink of coffee and a breath. "We showered together," he said. "W-We - there was - "

Anthea raised an eyebrow. "Intimacy?"

"If you're meaning that as a euphemism for - a specific form of contact, no. Not at that point. But we were close. He wanted touch. Affection. He was still very fragile and I comforted him."

 _Oh Christ, my heart. I shan't survive this._ "And then?"

Slight guilt crossed his face. "There - was then intimacy."

"Erm - forgive me for asking, sir - but - with a groin injury?"

"Bruising," Mr Holmes said, with a pained frown. He shifted in his seat. "And there was extremely _careful_ intimacy, not initiated by me."

Anthea exhaled, wishing he hadn't said it. The possibility Lestrade had merely wanted sex as comfort, and taken the additional fuss as a nice bonus, couldn't be discounted. The nature of the injury made it less likely, but Anthea supposed it would take nothing short of castration to dampen some men's interest in sex. Lestrade might be one of them.

"What then?" she asked, and watched Mr Holmes's expression tighten.

"We - talked."

 _Oh no._ "About?"

Mr Holmes took a lengthy drink of coffee. "In utter honesty," he said, "I'm not completely sure."

"Right. Tell me what you can."

He inhaled, ordering his thoughts. "He thanked me for coming to look after him. I told him it wasn't a hardship, and I liked his company very much."

 _Good,_ she thought. _Yes. Subtle. Hopeful._

"He asked if I was happy," Mycroft said, "with our - ... with how things are, and I said I was. He said, _'I like what we've got'."_

Anthea bit her lip, squeezing her coffee cup. "Did he - mean...?"

Mr Holmes gazed at her.

"I don't know," he said, lost. "I suppose I didn't wish to press the matter, in case he... a-and so instead, I said I was glad he'd reached for me, and I'd appreciated the chance to support him - and that I would do so in future, if needed."

It had been brave, Anthea thought, noting that Mr Holmes had far more of a talent for this sort of negotiation than he credited himself. From his account, he'd been presenting Lestrade with shining opportunities to express a wish for greater connection. It was a wise tactic - flawed only in that it required the recipient to pick up on the chance they'd been given.

"How did he respond?" she asked, preparing herself for the worst.

Mr Holmes hesitated, swallowing. "He asked if might text me during the week. 'Touch base', he said. Naturally I said I would like that."

Anthea nearly screamed. "That's _wonderful!"_

"But then - "

" - oh god - "

" - I suppose I - f-felt rather more courageous than I should have, and I recalled what you and I had discussed about exclusivity. I thought that if he confirmed we were monogamous in our arrangement, then it would... and then that particular impediment could be discarded."

Anthea's blood ran briefly cold. _Please. Please tell me he's not..._

"And so I asked," Mr Holmes continued, pale.

Anthea breathed in. "Tell me, sir."

The response surprised her.

"He said he isn't."

Her forehead crumpled; she opened her mouth.

" - 'right now'," Mr Holmes finished.

Anthea closed her mouth.

"Ah," she said.

She watched her employer's gaze dim. "He... then told me he isn't pushing for any kind of commitment. Between the two of us."

_Oh._

_Oh, no._

"How did you respond?" Anthea asked.

She watched him read her face, his spirits fading. She couldn't hide her disappointment. "I told him I like seeing him," he murmured. "That it suits me very well... he said he wouldn't wish things to change."

Anthea said nothing, her heart fallen.

"Then he..."

She looked up. Mr Holmes's expression creased; he shook his head.

"He suddenly seemed to worry."

"Worry?" Anthea searched his expression, feeling hope fluttering along with her pulse. "Worry about what?"

"I don't know," Mr Holmes admitted. "He said he hoped he hadn't 'freaked me out'. He said he was 'clumsy with this stuff', and that things are better simple - but he - he held me very tightly as he said it - and he kissed me. He seemed - _sad._ Not..."

" - conciliatory," she offered.

Mr Holmes met her eyes.

"Conciliatory," he agreed. "He seemed nervous again. Quiet. He still wanted to sleep in my arms. I... I'd have thought if he wished to distance himself from me, and establish limitations to our association, he..."

Anthea could barely breathe. "How was he this morning?"

She watched him struggling to understand it.

"Bright," he said. "Very - friendly."

"'Friendly'?"

"Yes. I woke up to find he was already active. He insisted on making me breakfast while I remained in bed. He asked after Sherlock, told me he'd recently seen John for a social drink. He - seemed eager to make conversation. The television was on, and we..." Mr Holmes gazed at her, bewildered, his coffee entirely forgotten. "We discussed the news. He teased me about world events. He made me toast. He said he hoped I had a good day, and to text him if I find myself bored."

Something wasn't adding up here. Anthea could sense it - there was a space being left by the unsaid, and she could see its outline starting to emerge. She hoped to god it was what she thought.

"Sir, would you say he was... _determinedly_ 'bright'?"

Mr Holmes inhaled. "Perhaps."

"Was he affectionate towards you?"

His eyes slid into recent memories. Though he shook his head, it was confusion rather than disagreement.

"Not for a while," he said. "He was busy in the kitchen, then busy in the bathroom. I - grew a little anxious that he was occupying himself on purpose, and I reached for him as he was dressing. I buttoned his shirt for him."

Anthea hardly dared break the silence with her voice. "How did he respond?"

Mr Holmes looked down into his coffee.

"Stepped into my arms," he said. His voice tightened. "He let me hold him for... for quite some time. I stroked his hair. He didn't say a word."

Anthea swallowed around the thickness in her throat. "How did he say goodbye to you?"

Mr Holmes took a moment to speak.

"Escorted me to the door," he said, weakly. "I reminded him of his painkillers, and that he should take care of his health... I told him I hoped he felt better soon. We made some small joke about him sending me a photograph of his lunch as proof of self-care. He thanked me again for coming. He... seemed tense but I... I didn't get the impression he wished me to hurry up and leave."

Anthea gripped her coffee cup for strength.

"He kissed you goodbye," she said, "didn't he?"

Mr Holmes looked into her eyes.

"He was shaking," he said. Distress filled his eyes. "I don't understand. I don't see what any of it means."

"Sir, when he told you he wasn't pushing for commitment... is that _exactly_ what he said? Those precise words? That he _wasn't pushing_ \- as opposed to he _didn't want?"_

He swallowed, glancing down at his coffee. "I believe so. I-If memory serves me, yes."

"And when he said he didn't wish things to change... this is important, Mr Holmes - had you given him some indication that _you_ wished things to change?"

He paled, shaking his head.

"No," he said at once. "No, I wouldn't have dared."

"Did you express to him you're happy with your current arrangement?"

"I..." She watched him search his thoughts, trying to understand. "I did, but... I didn't mean to the exclusion of..."

Anthea sat forwards.

She put a gentle hand upon his arm.

"Mr Holmes," she said, carefully. "I am about to propose a possibility to you."

His eyes flickered to her, worried.

"It would be helpful to our project," she said, "for you to consider this possibility very carefully."

Mycroft waited, regarding her with no small amount of concern.

Anthea held his stare.

"In trying to temper your affections for Lestrade," she said, "so as not to jeopardise your chances with him... is there _any chance_ you've given him the impression you wouldn't be interested in progressing to a relationship? That you're not seeking an emotional commitment?"

Mycroft searched her face.

"I can't imagine how I'd have done that," he said. He seemed quite sure. "If anything, I - s-should have been _more_ guarded with him... I suspect he sees my every thought. He affects me very deeply."

Anthea pressed her teeth, gently, into the side of her tongue.

"Think about it during the day, sir," she said. "Humour me. Road-test the possibility."

Her employer raised an eyebrow. "If you insist."

 _Good._ Anthea sat back in her seat, relieved there might be hope for the poor fools yet. "Oh - and one other request."

Mr Holmes looked up from his coffee, blinking. "Yes?"

"At one o'clock," she said, "you're to text Lestrade, asking him where your photograph of his lunch is."

Her employer stared at her, baffled. "Will that clarify the situation?" he said.

"Yes," Anthea replied. "In fact, I will stake the entirety of my remaining annual leave that he responds to you within five minutes... and I will stake the entirety of _next year's_ annual leave that his response will include at least one question."

"A question?" He looked as if she were suddenly speaking Hungarian. "Why a question?"

"In the hope it will prompt you to text him back, sir. Now, with our remaining few minutes, the Sarajevo developments. I spoke to Izetbegović early this morning, and his findings have been most illuminating..."

 

*

 

_'I - like seeing you, Greg. This suits me very well.'_

It was hard to care much about work this morning. It was hard to care much about anything. Greg found himself dragging his heels with his e-mails, clicking dully from one to the next in the hope they might start answering themselves. He sent out a few responses, read a report from forensics he'd been waiting for on the Abbey Wood case, then started wading through witness statements from yesterday's fight at the Duke of Sussex.

He couldn't stop returning in his mind to last night - playing bits of it over and over, like if he thought hard enough he could change them.

He wished he hadn't told Mycroft there was no-one else.

_Couldn't exactly have lied._

_Could have downplayed it, though - or just shut up, after. Not tried to..._

He'd unsettled Mycroft, and he knew it. He'd made it worse trying to be cool and breezy.

The truth was, Mycroft's silence had hurt like hell.

The thought he might be sleeping with other people - or at least keen to confirm that was part of their arrangement - made Greg's heart want to rip itself to shreds. Someone else might get to call Mycroft when they needed him. Someone else might be going to bed with him. It hadn't even crossed Greg's mind before; he now hated his own arrogance, assuming he was enough on his own.

He'd only just kept himself together last night.

He'd wanted to curl into Mycroft's chest and beg. _M'sorry I'm in love with you. I didn't mean to be. It doesn't change anything - it's okay, I know you're not like that. Just don't bloody go. I'll get a handle on myself, I swear._

_Just don't go._

But then - how else would this end?

If Greg had any sense, then for the sake of his dignity he'd pull away. He'd take his hurt feelings and his fluttering heart away from Mycroft, where they couldn't do any more damage, and he'd try proper dating again. He'd meet some people. He'd find someone who wasn't the keystone of British military intelligence to fall in love with.

They'd had fun, and it felt good - it felt _really_ good.

Now Greg had finally pushed it too far.

 _Chirping away like a fucking canary this morning,_ he thought, wincing as he reached for the next printed statement in the pile. He looked over it without truly reading a word. _Trying to show him I'm fine... like he didn't see through it in a second. Like he didn't notice I was crying when he hugged me._

_God almighty._

He'd wanted to cry last night, too. Mycroft taking care of him after sex - cleaning his stomach with a cloth, kissing him. It had felt like making love. Mycroft knew his body now. He knew what Greg liked, knew what turned him into a mess in seconds. There'd been something about lying warm and cosy in his own bed and softened with his painkillers, calm in Mycroft's company, just lying there and being looked after. He'd felt so safe. He'd felt overjoyed just to be together.

Now it hurt like nothing in the world.

Someone else was maybe getting that. Someone else felt safe when Mycroft laid down with them.

And Mycroft must have realised Greg had fallen too far. That kiss in Greg's doorway this morning might've been their last.

_They're never just mine, are they?_

_Christ. This is so typical of me._

_They're only ever mine for a while._

It was the one thing that had characterised his marriage - and it wasn't hard to guess where it came from. His parents had called it quits when he was three. Both of them had new families by the time he was seven, and it had been a long childhood back and forth between the two - never quite looked in the eye by his stepdad, inconveniencing his real dad and his real dad's real family every weekend, half-brothers and half-sisters who all believed that he really belonged somewhere else. Greg had passed through his own childhood like an awkward visitor. Now and then, there'd been a few minutes with a parent to himself - a few pages of a book tucked into someone's side, a few penalty shots in the garden - but someone had always come to retrieve their mum or dad from him before long.

Now he was heading for fifty - and he couldn't even have a fuck friend without wanting Mycroft to stay for good.

It had all been okay until Cliveden. Then he'd tried it on for a while - being Mycroft's - his dirty secret maybe, but his all the same. At the end of each night Mycroft had turned his back on the rich and the influential and come upstairs to Greg, and Greg had kidded himself it meant he mattered more than them. It was addictive. It was... wonderful.

It was only a week since they'd been there.

_Holy shit, I need a shrink. Not a sex friend._

Whatever he needed, it could wait.

Work couldn't. There were things for him to do, people counting on him, and the mess he kept making of his personal life wouldn't leave London any safer.

Greg read through his reports in a fragmented and unhappy haze until twelve, then ate his sandwich and had painkillers, ignoring the distressed flutters of memory it caused. He went for a smoke, made himself coffee and checked on his e-mails. _At least it's been quiet,_ he thought, telling himself to take comfort in small mercies. They were the only mercies you got, some days. You had to make the most of them.

When his phone sounded a short while later, Greg checked it without thinking, expecting an update from Sally. She was out doing his legwork today.

The name on the screen made his heart clench.

_New Message from Mycroft Holmes._

Greg opened it at once.

 

[12:59] _I think you promised me something this morning... slipped your mind? MH x_

 

"Oh god," Greg whispered.

_Checking on me. Even after I..._

He glanced at the remnants of his lunch, now crowded by paperwork beneath his monitor - crumpled cling film, a single crust from a ham sandwich, an empty crisp packet and a yoghurt pot with an apple core tucked inside it.

Heart thumping, Greg pulled them forwards and arranged them into a suitable picture. As an embellishing touch he retrieved the empty blister pack of painkillers from his waste paper bin, placed it in shot and took a photo.

He attached the picture to a message, typing nervously.

 

*

 

As the typing bubble appeared, Mycroft resisted the urge to dig his fingers into his desk. He breathed in and then out with quiet purpose, waiting as calmly as he was able.

The photograph appeared with a soft _'plink'_ \- the debris of lunch, a finished painkiller packet, heavy stacks of paperwork in shot. Mycroft's heart heaved against his ribs. _Your desk. Your working day._ Greg had an Arsenal football club mug and a black-and-gold Parker Duofold. He favoured blue ink; he ate salt and vinegar flavour crisps.

The message beneath the photo set Mycroft's pulse leaping.

 

**[13:01] 10/10 responsible adult. don't judge my milkybar yogurt. What did you have? x**

 

"You owe me two years' worth of annual leave," said the voice at Mycroft's shoulder.

_I think I owe you a good deal more than that._

"Bring me the form," he said, "and I'll sign it."

Anthea hummed. "I'll trade them for you to reply to him with a question."

"Now?"

She nodded. "Yes, now. Trust me."

Mycroft inhaled.

 

*

 

[13:02] _I have my usual green salad. Now sadly disappointing compared to Milkybar yoghurt. How are you? MH x_

 

"Oh god," Greg whispered again.

He repeated it inwardly as he typed.

 

**[13:03] no complaints. Paperwork day, nearly got my email inbox under 100. hows your day so far? (don't take the piss, they were on offer at the supermarket) xx**

[13:04] _You've confused envy for piss-taking. Distraught I wasn't offered one last night. I've been in meetings all morning - only just escaped. MH x_

**[13:04] Save you one for next time. good meetings? xx**

[13:05] _I would love to tell you Greg but then of course I'd have to kill you. MH x_

**[13:05] xD sounds good to me. no more emails. Hows your salad? can you talk about that? xx**

[13:06] _I can, and it is uninspiring. MH x_

**[13:07] not sure I've ever had an inspiring salad :P xx**

[13:07] _Now I think about it, no - nor have I. M x_

**[13:08] you need to get yourself some milkybar yogurts, mate. they're magic xx**

[13:09] _'Mate'? I see they seem to go very nicely with painkillers. M x_

**[13:10] one of those classic foodie combinations. coffee brb xx**

 

Mycroft squinted at the message. He got up from his chair, crossed to the office door and opened it. "Anthea?"

She looked up from her laptop. "Yes, Mr Holmes?"

"What does _'coffee burb'_ signify?"

Her mouth twitched. "Is it the letters 'b-r-b', by any chance?"

"Yes, it is."

"It means 'be right back', sir. It's digital parlance." She leant back in her chair, turning a pen between her fingers. "He's indicating that he'll be occupied for all of the five minutes it takes him to boil a kettle, in case you thought he'd abandoned your conversation and so stopped replying. Clearly a distressing thought to him. In other words, Mr Holmes - _'coffee burb'_ signifies that he's in love with you."

Mycroft's expression shuttered at once. "Greg is not in love with me."

"Is he not?"

"No. No, of course he isn't."

Anthea smiled, slowly.

"Ask him to dinner," she said.

Mycroft's stomach squeezed itself to half its size. It took the breath from his lungs. "God almighty."

"Ask him, Mr Holmes - and with his next reply the two of you will be officially dating. Take him somewhere romantic. Tell him through the candlelight that he's the most wonderful man you've ever met, that he occupies your thoughts day and night, and that Cliveden offer a comprehensive range of wedding packages to suit all budgets."

Mycroft felt himself flush to his hairline. "I approached you for _sensible advice."_

"This is my sensible advice," she said, smiling still, and crossed one stockinged leg over the other. "Ask him to dinner."

 _God help me._ "He - he might say no. I couldn't bear it."

"He shan't," she replied. "He'll say yes, probably very loudly."

"If he was willing to go to dinner with me, why would he have suggested an arrangement between us and not dinner in the first place?"

"The expectation that you'd agree to one but not the other," she said. "Now ask the poor man to dinner and prove him wrong."

Mycroft's message alert tone in his office. He flushed further, his heart racing.

"Excuse me," he muttered.

"Ask him," he heard her call, as the door began to close, "or I shall ask him on your behalf."

Mycroft opened it again. "You'll do no such thing!"

 

**[13:14] Hey... can I do something to thankyou for getting me back on my feet yesterday? xx**

[13:15] _Thanks are not needed. Truly Greg. M x_

**[13:16] Well... you didnt need to look after me. it was kind and I want to xx**

[13:16] _What manner of thanks are you proposing? M x_

 

Mycroft attempted to eat a little of his salad as he watched Greg reply. The typing bubble appeared for a while, then vanished entirely - reappeared, quickly vanished - and on its third attempt remained for some time.

The arrival of the message made his heart buck like a hare.

 

**[13:20] Come round some time this weekend. I'll cook for you. we can watch a film maybe... you can have your milkybar yogurt xxx**

 

Just under a mile away, Greg tried not to stare at his phone screen. Now he'd sent it, he knew for sure it was too much.

Or was it?

 _That could still be casual - couldn't it?_ It was just food and a film. Friends did that for each other. He hadn't necessarily shown his hand here - and his text didn't necessarily read like his internal organs were all trying to squeeze their way out of his throat, which they absolutely were.

Mycroft began to type.

 _Oh Jesus, here it comes._ He could almost hear Mycroft's voice. _'Greg, I fear you've misjudged the nature of our arrangement.'_ Closing his eyes, Greg told himself this would either be a win or a lesson.

His phone vibrated gently in his hand.

He forced open one eye.

 

[13:19] _That's very thoughtful of you. Yes, I'd love to. Thank you. M xx_

 

 _"Fuck._ Thank Christ. Thank _actual Christ."_

 

**[13:21] sunday evening? give me time to clean :P xxx**

[13:22] _Sunday evening. I'll bring wine. M xx_

 

"Oh god... oh Jesus, what do I cook for him?"

As Greg googled _'recipes to impress someone out of your league',_ his phone gave another sly buzz at his elbow.

 

_[13:23] And there's no need for you to clean, your flat is perfectly acceptable as it is. M xx_

 

The typing bubble appeared at once. Mycroft watched it, oblivious to his own growing grin. He fanned his fingers as he waited, rolling them with happy anticipation against the edge of his desk.

 

**[13:23] are we talking about the same flat? xxx**

[13:24] _The perfectly acceptable one in which I woke up this morning? M xx_

**[13:24] blimey. I'd have thought youd have higher standards than that :P xxx**

[13:25] _It seems you have misjudged me, 'mate'. M xx_

**[13:26] :P am I distracting you from work? xxx**

[13:27] _Only from my uninspiring salad. Should I let you return to the tide of emails? M xx_

**[13:27] doing them between texts. don't go if you don't have to. Nice to chat :) xxx**

[13:28] _Very well. Coffee - brb. M xxx_

 


	12. Garlic Bread

**[20:07] what are your thoughts on garlic bread? :) I'm making plans xxx**

[20:13] _'Strongly agree'. M xxx_

**[20:15] good :) tomato? provolone? no objections? xxx**

[20:16] _Ah, Italian. How continuingly agreeable. I'll bring red wine. M xxx_

**[20:16] and if I said "almond peach galette" to you... xxx**

[20:17] _Behave please. That's quite a combination of words to text me without a warning. M xxx_

**[20:20] ;) cool... xxx**

 

*

 

[09:12] _Good morning. How is your groin? M xxx_

**[09:14] Much better thanks :D Still bruised but I can now use stairs without crying. hows yours? xxx**

[09:18] _Very well thank you, along with the rest of me. Are you keeping up the painkillers? M xxx_

**[09:27] yep, like clockwork :) Sorry for delay. supermarket early before the saturday crowds show up xxx**

[09:29] _I hope this isn't specially on my account. M xxx_

**[09:30] I'd be here anyway, dont worry. didnt go last weekend. I was busy ;) xxx**

[09:36] _Incredible to think Cliveden was only last weekend. M xxx_

**[09:41] did you ever get trouble off the twat in the toupee? Hope he didnt make things awkward for you :| xxx**

[09:42] _Ah yes. Frederic. He's certainly gossiped but I wouldn't say it's caused me trouble. You needn't worry. M xxx_

**[09:43] no? xxx**

[09:45] _Between Frederic and Clarence it's now widely known I had you with me at Cliveden. My reputation doesn't seem to have suffered though. If anything it's rather improved. Thank you for that. M xxx_

**[09:48] you now getting high 5s in the canteen? :P xxx**

[09:49] _Dear lord. You imagine we have a canteen. M xxx_

**[09:49] Yep. all of you queuing up every lunchtime for your portion of fish fingers and mash. Can I ask a weird/curious question? xxx**

[09:51] _You may. M xxx_

**[09:57] sorry for delay. Checkout. do they know you just had "someone" or do they know its me...? (how famous am I now? haha) xxx**

[10:08] _I'm afraid your identity is known. Gossip tends to be done very thoroughly by the intelligence services. But my security team took steps to safeguard you as soon as you began associating with Sherlock. The precautions have been considerably increased in recent times. I promise it shan't affect you in any way. I'm sorry if this is distressing for you to hear. M xxx_

**[10:11] hahaha amazing :) xxx**

[10:12] _"Amazing"? M xxx_

**[10:12] since sherlock??? thats 8 years! Youve been paying someone all this time?? xxx**

[10:13] _To monitor my contacts for any undue interest in you. I'm afraid your personal enemies fall under your own departmental budget. M xxx_

**[10:14] thats fantastic :D have I got a file somewhere? xxx**

[10:15] _Yes... is that a problem? M xxx_

**[10:16] no! I think its brilliant :D xxx**

[10:18] _Some might be more inclined to consider it a distressing breach of privacy... M xxx_

**[10:19] you're the intelligence services? Its what you do. Knew that when I got into bed with you. still got in. Besides... I'm safe right? xxx**

[10:19] _Completely. If anything safer than you were before. Political lovers rather like nuclear weapons. M xxx_

**[10:22] "we all have them"? xxx**

[10:23] _Ah. Yes. And nobody is stupid enough to trigger armageddon by involving them. M xxx_

**[10:24] amazing xD MI5 gossiping about me... xxx**

[10:27] _I'm bemusedly relieved Greg. M xxx_

**[10:28] do they think I'm handsome? :P xxx**

[10:31] _My colleague informs me a photograph of you has been circulating. M xxx_

**[10:32] whattttttt! xD Oh jesus which one??? Its not my passport is it? I look deranged in that photo xxx**

[10:33] _Your hair is rather longer and you're wearing a leather jacket. M xxx_

**[10:34] ... nope nothing. more clues please. (I havent owned a leather jacket in years?) xxx**

[10:37] _I'd judge you as perhaps 15 years younger? You're smoking and unshaven. You seem to have an earring._ _My assistant informs me the jacket is a Belstaff. M xxx_

**[10:38] Jesus THAT photo???? why the hell are they sharing that one?? xxx**

[10:41] _Gregory... M xxx_

**[10:41] Thats from when I was undercover as a DS xxx**

[10:42] _It's clearly an evocative photograph. I truly hope you realise that. M xxx_

**[10:43] whatttt. Behave. xxx**

[10:43] _I shan't at all. My opinion stands. As does the general opinion of the security services. M xxx_

**[10:44] what the hell... you are all mad. I'll get you a better photo. One where I've got a decent suit on xxx**

[10:45] _I'll attach it to my next departmental memo, shall I? M xxx_

**[10:46] "dear MI5, please find attached better photo of new addition to my collection" :P xxx**

[10:46] _'Collection'! M xxx_

**[10:47] what? :P xxx**

[10:47] _I fear you've mistaken me for some kind of political lothario Greg. Hardly the 'collecting' type. M xxx_

**[10:47] just me on the MI5 noticeboard then? :P xxx**

[10:48] _You're quite enough to attract everyone's interest by yourself, I assure you. M xxx_

**[10:49] :P sweet about me xxx**

 

*

 

[13:17] _I hope you know I don't maintain a 'collection'. I'd be hurt if you thought that of me. M xxx_

**[13:18] Its ok sunshine. Only teasing you xxx**

[13:20] _You've attracted interest because of your rarity. M xxx_

**[13:21] yeah? xxx**

[13:21] _Yes. Not normally inclined to company. M xxx_

**[13:25] if I was still in a teasing mood I'd say that must mean I'm special xxx**

[13:26] _To which I'd reply, perhaps it does. M xxx_

**[13:27] ;) xxxxx**

[13:27] _:) M xxx_

 

*

 

**[21:53] how was your day? :) xxx**

[21:55] _Good. Quiet but no bad thing. Please excuse any typing mistakes. Rather sleepy + warm + glass of wine. M xxx_

**[21:55] winding down? :) xxx**

[21:56] _Mm :) How was your day? M xxx_

**[21:56] quiet and good too :) Flat looks like a palace. gleaming surfaces. you'll feel right at home ;) xxx**

[21:57] _Rogue ;) Don't make effort for me. M xxx_

**[21:57] tough. I want to :) xxx**

[21:57] _;) Drying - brb. M xxx_

**[21:58] drying? Are you in the bath? :D xxx**

[22:07] _I was. M xxx_

**[22:08] with a glass of wine? xxx**

[22:08] _Yes, why? M xxx_

**[22:09] tell me there were bubbles and a candle :) xxx**

[22:10] _Your bathroom also has a bottle of bath foam and a candle. M xxx_

**[22:11] yeah but its better thinking of you doing it :) Why didn't I get a bubblebath picture?? xxx**

[22:12] _That you could dissemminate around Scotland Yard. ;) M xxx_

**[22:12] hahaha. Saw right through my plan ;) xxx**

[22:13] _"Dear everyone, please find attached photo of new addition to my collection." ;) M xxx_

**[22:13] you know there's no one else ;) sum total of my collection xxx**

[22:15] _That must mean I'm special. ;) M xxx_

**[22:16] perhaps it does ;) xxx**

 

*

 

 **[08:12] good morning :) xxx  
** \- ATTACHED: IMG0912.jpg

[08:13] _Hello G. Out and about early? M xxx_

**[08:13] Beckton creekside. sunday morning jog (dont worry, taking it slow) xxx**

[08:16] _A better view than my treadmill. And I'm glad to hear you're not overstretching yourself. M xxx_

**[08:41] we should go for a jog some time :) xxx**

[08:43] _I would like that :) M xxx_

**[08:44] bet cliveden is amazing to jog round. those gorgeous woods xxx**

[08:46] _I've never done it, but I imagine you're right. I'd recommend a few weeks to strengthen your groin before you attempt something on that scale ;) M xxx_

**[08:47] me and my over ambitious groin xD xxx**

 

*

 

[13:09] _What time are you expecting me this evening? M xxx_

**[13:21] come round for 7 maybe? :) xxx**

[13:24] _Excellent. I will see you then. M xxx_

**[13:25] looking forward to it :) xxx**

[13:25] _Yes, as am I. :) M xxx_

 

*

 

The knock came at a minute past seven.

Heart jumping, Greg tossed his tea-towel over one shoulder and went to answer it, taking a second to fix his hair in the mirror as he passed. He'd worn a proper shirt; he'd put on aftershave and a romantic playlist. The place was spotless and the candles were lit.

As he opened the door, he found Mycroft waiting there with a bottle of red wine - and no tie.

"Hey," Greg said, grinning at once.

Mycroft's mouth curved. He stepped over the threshold, put the bottle on a nearby surface without a glance and took Greg's face into his hands.

"Thank you for inviting me," he murmured, drawing Greg up onto his toes.

Their lips stroked.

Greg felt a shiver tumble the full length of his spine. His eyelids fluttered as he leant a little closer, melting into the wrap of Mycroft's arms.

Mycroft held him close, kissing him slowly by the open door.

As he began to stroke Greg's back, a tentative bleeping sounded somewhere on the edge of Greg's consciousness. He felt Mycroft's curious pause and pulled back with a reluctant shiver.

"Sorry," he said, biting his lip. "Think that's our garlic bread..."

Mycroft smiled, gazing at him warmly across mere inches of space. "You've gone to far too much effort."

_Jesus, I'm in love with you._

_This is actual love. This is actually happening right now._

The oven timer continued to beep.

"Nice to spend time with you," Greg managed, wishing he sounded just a little less breathy. He watched Mycroft's pupils grow. "Proper time." _God. Go for it, Lestrade._ "Wanted to make it - special."

The miniscule lift of Mycroft's mouth caused a distinct tug in Greg's stomach.

"Shall I let you tend to that garlic bread?" he murmured.

"P-Probably best. Don't want to let it burn."

Mycroft released him gently, unwrapping his arms. "I'd hate to waste all your efforts."

As Greg went to attend to the timer, his heart still hopping and dancing behind his ribs, he heard Mycroft close the front door and shuck off his coat.

"Dear lord, Greg... is this the same flat?"

Greg grinned, scraping the tray noisily from the oven. "Looks bigger tidy, doesn't it? I was overdue a proper clear out. Make yourself at home... won't be long before food."

Mycroft brought the bottle of wine over to the kitchen corner, placing it on the counter.

"May I help you with anything?" he asked.

Greg smiled. "Corkscrew in the drawer to your right," he said, turning the garlic bread slices carefully with his fingers. They only needed another few minutes. "So - how was your Sunday? Did you do much?"

"A few small work tasks," Mycroft said, retrieving the corkscrew. "I was then rather lazy, I'm afraid. I took a book to the conservatory and let the afternoon slip away from me."

Greg grinned. "Day of rest," he said. "S'good to have down time... sets you up for the week."

"Mm. Rare I get the chance to read. And how was your day?"

In all honesty, Greg had spent every moment of it in anticipation of this one. Knowing Mycroft would be here right now, not just for sex but for company, made him so happy it was impossible to focus on anything else. It was all he wanted in the world.

"Pretty good so far," he said, returning the garlic bread to the oven. "Did some laundry at last... and it was nice to get out for some exercise."

He set the timer with a quick nudge of his thumb.

"There," he said. "Few more minutes."

"Thank you, Greg. In honour of the occasion..." Mycroft handed him a glass of very dark red wine. "Barolo Pira," he said, "2010. Roagna."

 _God, I can't stop grinning at you._ "Thanks. Before I drink this, how hard would the price tag make me wince?"

Mycroft chuckled low in his throat, now pouring himself a glass.

"I doubt you would at all," he said. "Suitably indulgent but not obnoxious."

 _"Two_ digits...?"

Mycroft's eyes glittered. "Two digits."

Reassured, Greg took a drink. The taste filled his mouth at once - rich, spicy and incredibly deep. "Christ, that's gorgeous."

"Isn't it?" Mycroft leant back against the counter, surveying Greg with a smile over the rim of his glass. "I've been saving it. Rather pleased to have an excuse to open the bottle at last."

_I'm worth saved wine._

"I'm not sure if my dinner's going to live up to this, you know..." Greg took another sip. "Mhm. Definitely going to let the side down."

"What are we having?"

"Chicken - baked with roasted sweet balsamic tomatoes, garlic butter and provolone. Rice and side salad to accompany."

Mycroft's eyes seemed to shine. "It sounds wonderful, Greg. I'm certain you have nothing to worry about."

Greg grinned, taking another drink. _Glad you've got faith in me, at least._ "D'you mind that we're eating on the couch?"

"Not at all."

"I swear this place looked bigger when I viewed it."

"It's perfectly compact," Mycroft said, "and I'll be delighted to eat on the couch with you." He moved closer, slid his arm around Greg and placed a quiet kiss upon his forehead. Greg felt his heart squeeze like a squeaky toy; he tried to keep it off his face. "For what it's worth," Mycroft added, his voice low and fond, "you still have no reason to thank me. I'm holding you to your debt of reciprocation, after all."

_I would literally cross oceans to look after you._

"Just say when," Greg murmured, leaning into Mycroft's side. "I'll come running. Foot rubs, fuss. Whatever it is."

"Mmhm..." Mycroft stroked back a little of his hair, kissing his hairline. "I hope you appear smelling like this, I must say. Rather beguiling. New?"

"C-Christmas. Sister - well, half-sister. Works for L'Oréal. D'you like it?"

"I do," Mycroft murmured, following Greg's cologne to its source and nuzzling beneath the curve of his jaw. "Mhm. Very much. What is it?"

"Erm - it's called 'Opium Pour Homme'. Probably with garlic layered on top."

As Mycroft's mouth stroked over his pulse point, a flutter passed through Greg's stomach. He moved his glass of wine carefully to the counter, shivering.

Mycroft hummed, followed suit, then backed him up against the fridge.

_Oh, Jesus._

_Jesus, Jesus..._

When the oven timer began to beep again, Greg was tempted just to throw it through the window. He scrunched his fingers in Mycroft's hair and shuddered, desperate for the gentle biting and sucking of his neck not to stop yet. Mycroft's huff of amused breath only tightened his grip.

"I believe that's your garlic bread," Mycroft murmured, and curled his tongue around Greg's earlobe.

Greg bit down into his lip. "It's b-better burned."

"Mm?" Mycroft rumbled, nibbling. Greg's eyes rolled back into his head.

Before he could breathe, a separate timer began to ring across the kitchen - a novelty Father Christmas, whose shrill clamour was a little harder to ignore.

"The chicken?" Mycroft said, amused.

"Y-Yeah. Probably not as good burned."

Mycroft pressed a tender kiss to his pulse. "Shall we adjourn this for now?" he murmured, and eased away. _God, no. Don't stop. Kiss me all damn night. We'll order pizza._ "May I help you serve dinner?"

Greg's heart was still racing.

"Should be fine," he managed. He gave Mycroft a flushed smile. "You could take the wine through, if you like."

Mycroft smiled, retrieved the bottle and both glasses, and with a last rather dark-eyed glance he moved away towards the sofa.

_Jesus, I'm not going to survive this._

Serving the food gave Greg's pulse a few minutes to settle. He took his time to arrange the chicken, hoping to make it look presentable - unlike the usual muck he scraped out of a pan to feed himself. It had turned out nicely, at least. The cheese had just started to brown, the tomatoes still juicy but not wet. _Maybe the universe is looking out for me._

_Fuck, does he know I'm thinking of this as a date?_

_Surely all the texting tipped him off... he came with posh wine - that's a date thing, isn't it? - he thinks it's a date, too. He must do._

_God, please let him think it too._

As he approached the couch, bearing both plates, the look in Mycroft's eye was enough to make Greg want to squirm. It was impossible to suppress the thought of having this several times a week - cooking for Mycroft, indulging his own domestic side a little, relaxing together on the sofa after work - back-rubs, candles, _how was your day?_

Greg put the plates down with care, biting his lip.

"I hope it's alright," he said. "If it's not, there's almond peach galette. If that's crap too, we'll just binge on Milkybar yoghurts. I bought two packs just in case."

Mycroft simply smiled, extended a hand beside him, and patted the vacant cushion. _Come here._

 _God help me,_ Greg thought as he settled down on the sofa. Mycroft's arm went around him at once. He cuddled into Mycroft's side, desperately keeping in his grin, and lifted his plate onto his lap.

"Where did you learn the recipe?" Mycroft asked, with interest, as he reached for a piece of garlic bread. Greg tried not to hold his breath.

"Sally sent it to me a few months ago," he said. "She found it online. I ruined it the first time I made it. Over-cheesy."

Mycroft scooped up a little of the sauce with the bread, lifting it to his mouth.

As he bit into it, Greg felt time itself shrink to a halt. He watched nervously as Mycroft chewed, no longer able to feel his own pulse.

Mycroft's eyes closed; he lifted his fingertips to his mouth.

"Oh Jesus," Greg said, his stomach plummeting. "I'm sorry. Don't eat anymore - I'll fetch the Chinese menu. Pretend this never happened."

Mycroft stifled a laugh around his mouthful, chewing determinedly and then swallowing. He tightened his arm around Greg.

"You'll do no such thing," he said. "It's marvellous, Greg. This sauce is _divine._ Now please breathe - I've never felt someone stiffen so much in all my life."

"Are you sure it's alright? You can tell me if it's crap. I won't mind. I promise."

"It's _magnificent,"_ Mycroft said, turned his head and kissed Greg firmly between the eyes. "You may relax, darling."

_'Darling'._

_Oh, fuck. 'Darling'._

"May I refill your wine for you?" Mycroft asked, and reached for the bottle as he took another bite of garlic bread.

Greg shyly nudged his wine glass nearer. "Thank you, sunshine."

 


	13. Someone Like Me

Greg meant to put a film on with dessert. It slipped his mind; it was too good just to sit and talk. Long after the oven dish was put to soak in the sink, he and Mycroft were still curled up on the couch together, lost in conversation, feeding each other spoonfuls of warm pastry with peaches and cream. He had his socked feet in Mycroft's lap; they were grinning and laughing as they put the world to rights. Greg barely noticed his playlist passing by. The candles began to flutter, idling low in their pools of wax, and he could smell his cologne warming and deepening on his throat.

Mycroft's gaze was deepening, too.

Being together like this felt as natural as anything in the world.

 _I don't want you to go,_ Greg thought, as Mycroft leant close and filled his glass with the last of the wine.

Mycroft watched him think it, his pupils dark and soft.

"Thank you for dinner," he murmured. He placed the empty bottle aside on the coffee table, and slid his hands down Greg's calves to his feet. "It was wonderful, Greg. You're a remarkable cook."

Greg's heart heaved against his ribs.

"You were kind to come look after me," he replied, resting his cheek against the back of the sofa. His toes flexed as Mycroft began to rub slow circles into his arches. "Thank you. For - letting me need you. I mean it."

Mycroft's smile grew.

"I'm glad you felt able to," he said.

_God._

"You really settle me, you know that?" Greg murmured. "You make me feel like things're all alright..." As Mycroft found a sore spot on his left foot, Greg shivered and stretched. "Ahh - "

"There?"

"Nnh. There. Yes please."

Mycroft removed Greg's sock, gathered both hands around his foot and concentrated on the knot he'd found, watching with amusement as Greg squirmed.

"Should I be rescuing that wine glass?" he asked.

Greg knocked the glass's contents back in one breath, then pushed it away across the coffee table. "Problem solved," he said, and fanned his toes hopefully for Mycroft's attention.

Mycroft chuckled and worked through them in turn, rubbing slowly so not to tickle.

Greg groaned a little as he slumped into the cushions. Little curls of enjoyment were rising up his back. It was impossible not to melt in this moment - wine, candlelight, Mycroft's gaze wrapped around him. His own cheeks felt pink and flushed; the foot-rubbing was only making them warmer.

"God," he whispered, closing his eyes. Mycroft stripped off his other sock. "God... you're..."

"Mm." Mycroft set about giving his other foot the same care and attention, working slow patterns against Greg's arch with his thumbs. "More than deserved, for that dessert of yours."

Greg grinned. He gazed up beneath his eyelashes, his fingers flexing against the couch beneath him. "I make other desserts, too."

"Can you now?" Mycroft murmured, intrigued.

"Mhm."

"My waistline should run screaming, should it?"

 _Give your waistline here, sunshine. I'll sort it out._ "Everybody needs a vice."

"A shame," Mycroft noted, his eyes glittering, "that I already smoke and drink wine."

 _"Good_ wine," said Greg. Mycroft began to massage his instep; his back arched up off the couch. "Mnnhh... doesn't count if it's good wine. And you said you only smoke when you're with me."

"Curious," Mycroft hummed. "In fact I drink wine, smoke _and_ eat to excess when I'm with you... and if memory serves me rightly, we also have rather a lot of intensive sex."

Greg grinned from ear-to-ear.

"Not necessarily a vice," he said, breathily. Mycroft's thumbs were rubbing little circles firmly against his instep now, warm fingers wrapped around the rest of his foot. It was doing things to him it possibly shouldn't. "I inspire you to live life to the fullest," he tried. "I'm your _joie de vivre."_

A delightful flicker of humour crossed Mycroft's face; his brain seemed to take a second to reboot.

"I have - _never_ heard someone with a French surname so mangle the phrase _'joie de vivre',"_ he said. "Do you speak French?"

Greg's secondary school French rose at once to the fore. _"Jemappelle Gregory,"_ he said, as Mycroft began to rub around his heel. _"Jabiton Onglatare. Jay onze ans. Jay trois frère et trois soeur._ Will that do?"

"Dear lord."

"School report said I was 'profoundly unsuited to modern foreign languages'."

"They weren't wrong, darling."

 _God. While you're rubbing my feet. Surely you know this is a date._ "Didn't do badly in Home Economics, though."

"Clearly not." Mycroft smiled, regarding Greg with great interest as he massaged his left ankle. "Are you truly one of seven children?"

"Ahh - s-sort of. Different collections."

"'Collections'?"

It didn't matter how old Greg found himself. Explaining this would always make him feel like a little boy, never daring to bond with any toy he couldn't carry easily in a back-pack. "Two steps and four halves."

"Ah, I see." Mycroft eased from rubbing down to gentle stroking, his fingers smooth and unfaltering as they glided back to the sensitive underside of Greg's foot. "Difficult vocabulary to grasp when one is eleven."

Greg laughed a little.

"Y-Yeah. I - got sick of explaining, to be honest. Everyone else just said _'jay un frère, sappelle Simon'_ and we moved on. I was there for days."

Mycroft smiled, quietly amused. He looked down as he kept stroking Greg's feet.

"Sherlock and I had a French tutor," he said. He sounded a little reluctant to share it; some of the playfulness had left his eyes. "My mother insisted we learn together, in the hope it would encourage Sherlock to behave..."

Greg bit his lip. "Did it?"

"Not at all."

Greg smiled. He watched Mycroft's eyes brighten again, warming as they looked into his.

"As usual, he took it as a chance to torment me," Mycroft sighed. He smoothed the legs of Greg's jeans back to his ankles. "He would feign confusion and lack of understanding in order to stall the sessions, thereby forcing endless repeats of very basic vocabulary. Mama would always ask why I hadn't tried to help him."

Greg's heart squeezed a little. Sherlock in his adulthood could be bloody difficult at times; a prepubescent Sherlock couldn't have been any easier to deal with. "Surely she knew Sherlock was smart enough to pick it up? I mean... he's..."

"Smart enough to hide it from her. He could work things out very well when he wanted." Mycroft's mouth pulled a little. _"'J'ai un gros frère qui s'appelle Mycroft',"_ he said, reaching for Greg's socks from the arm of the sofa. _"'Il a eté adopté.'"_

The French fuzzed as _no signal_ in Greg's brain - until the final phrase.

He glanced up in surprise. He didn't know if he'd misheard.

"You're - ?"

Mycroft's forehead contracted.

"Yes," he said. "I... of course I am." As he pulled Greg's left sock back over his foot, he seemed quietly surprised. "Sherlock hadn't told you?"

Greg wasn't sure why it made his pulse speed up.

"No," he said. "No, I didn't know. Is Sherlock - ?"

"Ah... no. He was a biological son. I've - come to learn it's actually rather common. A couple convinced they have a negligible chance to conceive naturally will neglect any precautions to prevent such an occurrence. 'Miracles' then happen."

Greg's heart twisted. He'd never heard the word 'miracles' said so flatly, so void of feeling.

"Did they still treat you the same?" he asked.

From the quietness in Mycroft's gaze, he knew at once - distress flooded his chest.

"Sherlock was a dream they'd given up on," Mycroft said, pulling on his other sock for him. He wasn't meeting Greg's eyes anymore. "My mother was... always somewhat fragile, emotionally - and she'd been wounded by having to resort to adoption. It was the altar on which she lay dying, if I'm frank. Rarely missed a chance to discuss her struggle. Sherlock changed all that for her."

Greg sat up, reaching for Mycroft's hands.

"I'm sorry," he said. He wrapped their fingers tightly. "That's... god, I'm really sorry. That must have been crap."

Mycroft hesitated, looking down at their joined hands.

He gripped gently.

"She likely didn't intend to hurt me," he murmured, as if it didn't matter. "Oversight, rather than..." He tried to smile again, the expression tight. "Her usual introduction was _'this is our son, Sherlock... and this is Mycroft'._ Rather wounding. But then, it is past."

Greg felt the walls of his chest cave. He gazed into Mycroft's face, aching with anger and distress at the very thought.

Pushing up onto his knees, he moved along the sofa to pull Mycroft into his arms. He stroked his hands over Mycroft's back and held him, gathering close together in the quiet.

As he spoke, he felt a first shake pass through his hands.

"I - I used to get... _'and this is Greg'._ I was the sort of - _'we all make mistakes'_ kid. My mum and dad were young when... I know it's not the same, but..."

Mycroft's arms tightened around him. He took a moment to speak.

"It strikes me as rather similar, in fact."

Greg closed his eyes. He nuzzled into Mycroft's jaw, wishing he could change it somehow - wishing he could take that awful story and swap it for just a little kindness.

He couldn't keep the words in.

"Kinda hate they were that thoughtless to you, if I'm honest. You deserved better."

There was a pause. The music settled into quiet, a lull between tracks.

"You are not a mistake," Mycroft said. "Not in any way."

Greg's heart heaved at its seams.

He closed his eyes, breathing in.

The opening strain of a saxophone broke disconcertingly into his thoughts. Before he could retrieve what he'd been about to say, he felt Mycroft's startled puff of laughter against his neck.

"Gregory - is this Michael Bolton?"

 _Oh Jesus._ "Uhh, no. Don't think so."

Michael Bolton began to sing. Greg cringed into Mycroft's neck, holding tighter as restrained laughter shook through Mycroft's shoulders.

"Dear god," Mycroft said with delight. "It's actually _Soul Provider,_ isn't it? Tell me this is a pre-created playlist."

"Yes," Greg said, quickly. "I had nothing to do with this. Nothing at all."

"I did wonder about the cover of _Lean on Me_ I heard earlier. Rather smooth for Bill Withers."

"Wait - hang the fuck on - how do _you_ recognise Michael Bolton?"

"You are aware that in 1989 I was twenty-two and incredibly homosexual, aren't you? The pickings were slim, Greg. We took what we could."

"God help me. Can we just pretend it's not Michael Bolton, please?"

"No," Mycroft said, as Greg shook with laughter. "Not for a moment. This is now seared into my memory forever."

"Argh. I was trying to make it - nice. 'Romantic'."

"And your deep, secret passion for the tender croonings of Mr Michael Bolton came shining to the fore."

"Oh, fuck - I can't breathe - "

Mycroft's fingers scrunched with delight in Greg's hair; Greg could feel a grin growing against his neck.

"I do hope there's more," Mycroft teased. "Nothing facilitates conversation like expecting the first notes of _Sexual Healing_ to begin at any moment."

"Oh,  _Christ_ \- "

"Have I mortified you enough yet?"

Greg couldn't remember ever holding someone so tightly. _I love you. I'm in love with you. It's real and it's you._

_Oh fuck, it's you._

As Mycroft drew back to see him, chuckling, Greg attempted to hide his tears of laughter. Mycroft chased them with a grin, cupped his face and kissed him, stroking the shine from the corners of Greg's eyes.

"Ridiculous man," Mycroft murmured. "To think I feared _my_ revelation was shameful..."

"Don't tell Sherlock I like Michael Bolton," Greg pleaded between kisses.

As he carded his fingers through Mycroft's hair, Mycroft gathered him nearer. "Sherlock shan't have the slightest clue who that is," he said, caught Greg's lower lip and pulled on it gently. "Hardly relevant to his interests."

"Please don't tell John I like Michael Bolton."

"We'll discuss terms."

 _Fuck, fuck, I love you. Fuck._ "Pretty sure blackmail's illegal," Greg said, gasping as Mycroft cupped him by the arse and pulled him close.

Mycroft huffed against his mouth, delighted. "Lock me up, inspector."

As Greg's pulse punched its way through the ceiling into the flat above, Mycroft claimed his mouth in a kiss. Greg swayed; Mycroft held him tighter, parting Greg's lips with his tongue. _Fuck, yes. God. Fuck._ Deft hands untucked Greg's shirt from his jeans and slid beneath, raking up over his skin as he shuddered. _Mine,_ the searching fingertips seemed to say. _All mine._ Greg's whimper left him muffled, cut off by Mycroft's tongue.

By the time their lips came apart for air, he needed little encouragement into Mycroft's lap.

He pushed close, shaking, swallowing around a groan as their cocks ground together and rubbed. Mycroft shivered. His fingers slipped through the belt loops on the back of Greg's jeans.

"You smell divine," he breathed as Greg settled astride him.

Greg leant down, tilting Mycroft's head up for another blistering kiss. The slick, demanding stroke of Mycroft's tongue was burning all thought from his head. _God, I want to please you. I want to make you happy._

"Do you have an early start?" he asked, panting a little as Mycroft began to unbutton his shirt.

Mycroft's mouth grazed along his jaw, rasping across his stubble. "I'm expected in a meeting with the Cabinet Secretary at seven."

Greg tried to ignore the low swoop of his heart. _You'll have to go before morning. You'll have to leave me._

Mycroft pushed Greg's shirt open across his chest, back over his shoulders.

"But my assistant has agreed to go in my place," he said, working it down his upper arms, "if I find myself unable to attend."

Greg's pulse spiked. He squirmed to assist with the removal of his shirt, feeling somehow more naked in the candlelight than he'd ever been with Mycroft before.

"U-Unable to...?" he whispered.

Mycroft's teeth dug gently into the crook of his neck. Greg's breath cut, his senses writhing with immediate pleasure and the little bite of pain; his thighs clenched either side of Mycroft's.

"If you invite me to stay with you," Mycroft murmured. As he freed Greg's wrists from his cuffs, he nuzzled into his collarbones. "If I'm more needed here."

_Oh my god._

"The 'Cabinet Secretary' sounds important," Greg managed, shaking. He felt his shirt flutter to the floor behind him.

Mycroft's hands soothed up the curve of his back, fingers spread, his palms warm.

"He is the senior-most civil servant in the government," Mycroft said. Greg's stomach curled into an immediate knot. "He acts as senior policy adviser to the Prime Minister and the Cabinet."

"H-Holy shit - and you're - y-you'd blow him off, just to..."

Mycroft's tongue idled along his collarbone. "Mm."

A bubble of nervous laughter escaped Greg; he couldn't help it. "A-Am I really that good in bed?" he asked, looking down.

Mycroft looked up. He was all blue eyes and gentleness - and as their gazes met, Greg felt his heart contract.

He didn't breathe, waiting.

Mycroft's expression softened.

He laid a kiss upon Greg's heart, holding his gaze. After another moment, he seemed to make a decision.

"Taking you to bed is heaven," he said, quietly. "You won't ever hear me deny that." Greg felt him inhale, his shoulders rising. "Sleeping by your side, and having breakfast with you, are... also important to me."

Greg didn't move. He watched Mycroft swallow.

"Greg, I... would spend the night simply talking with you," he said, "sitting on this couch and drinking wine, if you wished. That would also make me happy."

_Oh -_

_Oh Jesus -_

Greg stared down into Mycroft's eyes, feeling his heart pounding towards the verge of rupture.

"Mycroft..." He hadn't meant to whisper it. He watched Mycroft's gaze travel to his lips. "M-Myc... I..."

Quietly, Mycroft lifted a hand.

As he cupped Greg's cheek, a wave of warmth rolled through Greg's chest. He felt his pulse flutter in instant response; Mycroft's thumb brushed across his lower lip.

"I am intensely fond of you," Mycroft whispered, and Greg felt his soul shatter at once into a million tiny shards of light. They filled him to the brim, changing him forever in an instant. "Not just in bed, Greg. Whenever I have your company, I'm happy. I hope that's - w-welcome."

"J-Jesus - Myc, you - "

"If I've misinterpreted the situation, I - "

 _Holy fuck. Holy shit._ "D'you - do you mean you - l-like me more than just...?"

Mycroft's expression tightened with a first flicker of panic.

"I realise you suggested a more casual arrangement," he said. Greg could feel his muscles stiffening, hear his voice fortifying itself with formality. "A-And I fully intended to honour that. I still will, if you wish. Though I - I confess I..."

Something broke in Greg's chest. He almost whimpered the words.

"But you're important." He started to shake. "You're - y-you're a big fucking deal. You're the government. You don't have time for..."

Mycroft's expression creased with distress.

 _"You_ are important too," he breathed. Greg felt his throat close up as if for good. "I care for you - _very_ much. I don't have eons of free time, but... what I do have, I'd - I'd very much like to..." His hands tightened nervously on Greg's back. "... with you."

Greg's heart lurched.

"J-Jesus - "

"I'm sorry," Mycroft gasped, suddenly paling. "I'm so sorry - please tell me I haven't r-"

His voice cut as their mouths crushed together.

By the time they came apart, Greg's jaw ached. He could feel the first prickle of tears in his eyes; the relief was too much to contain. He held Mycroft's face in his hands, their foreheads pressed together, and stared into the wide blue eyes now gazing at him in desperation.

"I thought you wouldn't want me," he said. His voice broke. "F-Fuck. I thought you'd... I thought you'd never - s-someone like me."

Mycroft's mouth opened.

"Greg..." He swallowed, hard. "Greg, I - s-since Cliveden."

"S-Shit. Shit, me too."

"Then - t-then we have been - "

" - oh god - oh fuck, I can't believe we've - "

Mycroft's arms tightened. "Please come to dinner with me," he gasped. Greg felt the whole room around him heave. "I want you. I want a relationship with you. I'm - n-not entirely certain what would change but I'd like it all the same. Please. Please be mine."

The sound which left Greg was half-laugh and half-sob. He cradled Mycroft's face in his hands, shining with joy. His vision blurred; he blinked it back.

"You're - f-fucking amazing," he said, shaking. "You're funny and you're gorgeous and you're kind. I can't stop thinking about you when you're gone. Cliveden was the happiest I've been with anyone in years. Christ, please take me out to dinner."

Mycroft's pupils swelled. "Greg - "

"Any night you like," Greg whispered, and stole a shaking kiss from Mycroft's lips. _You want me. You want me to belong to you, want me for real..._ "Just tell me where to be and when. I'll be there."

"Oh - _god..."_ Mycroft's throat muscles audibly squeezed. "Greg?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"You are - _w-wonderful._ Please tell me you realise that."

_Oh Christ, I can't breathe._

"Stay," Greg gasped. He wound his fingers tight through Mycroft's hair, his pulse pulling him apart. "Stay 'til morning. Please. Ditch your meeting for me. I wanna be with you."

Mycroft shuddered, reaching up in desperation for his lips. As they kissed, breathing hard and pulling as close together as their skin would allow, Greg felt a ripple of need pass through his entire body - his muscles ached with it, fingers curling in Mycroft's hair.

"Sunshine?" he whispered into the kiss, trembling.

Mycroft kissed him harder; their tongues curled. Greg inhaled, gathering his strength and managed to catch Mycroft's jaw, holding him still.

"Myc?" he breathed, as Mycroft tried to kiss him.

Mycroft's eyes opened, weak and soft; they searched Greg's face in a daze. "Yes?"

"You said - 'making love'..."

Mycroft flushed, a little nervous. "Is it - alright that I did?" he asked.

Greg leant close. He rubbed his nose along the side of Mycroft's, breathing in his scent.

"S-Sounds nice, that's all. Think I want to try it."

Mycroft's teeth grazed his lower lip - caught, pulled. Greg's heart strained. "Have we - not previously?"

"N-Not properly," Greg whispered. "Not on purpose."

Mycroft's fingers splayed slowly on his bare lower back, a gently possessive hold which took the very last of Greg's breath. "How does it differ from what we've had?"

Greg thought about it; the answer unfolded in his mind, perfectly formed.

"Take me like I'm yours," he whispered. "Slow. Like no-one else exists for you. Don't look away from my eyes."

Mycroft's mouth opened a little.

He closed it carefully.

"Very well," he said, somewhat breathless.

Greg shivered; he reached for the buttons of his lover's shirt.

"Let's get you comfortable, gorgeous," he whispered. "Get to know each other at last."

 

*

 

As he felt Mycroft begin to breach him, Greg's eyes closed on their own. He  tightened his grip on Mycroft's shoulder, his back arching up from the bed, and drew his focus onto small sensations - Mycroft's breath soft and warm against his temple, the damp sheets crumpled beneath them, the flicker of candlelight across his closed eyelids. Even relaxed, slick from Mycroft's fingers and soft inside, so desperate to fuck he could barely breathe, this felt intense.

Mycroft's hand curled gently beneath his chin, lifting his face from his neck. Greg shivered and obeyed. He felt almost weak with surrender. _Yours,_ he thought, panting slowly, as Mycroft eased deeper and his body ached with discomfort. _Oh fuck, yours. God. Make me ache._

Mycroft gently kissed his lips. "Open your eyes for me, darling."

_Darling._

Greg looked up, shaking.

The gaze which met his own was deep and soft and dark, as warm as the candlelit room around them. Mycroft's eyes held his own, perfectly safe; they watched him begin to breathe.

"That's it," Mycroft murmured. His thumb stroked Greg's cheek. "Breathe for me, love. You're doing beautifully."

 _Love._ Greg's throat squeezed, his pulse hitching.

"Y-You're perfect," he gasped. Heat flashed across his face. "Oh, fuck. Please. Please tell me you mean it."

Mycroft's mouth curved. "'Mean it'?"

"You - l-like me. You want me. You want more. I can be yours, for real."

Mycroft's fingertips brushed through his hair, soft and cool against his scalp. He stroked a kiss over Greg's lips.

"At Cliveden," he whispered; Greg's heart strained as he listened, "in the forest with you - kissing each other in the sunlight - I have never felt so keenly that I was precisely where I was meant to be."

_Oh god..._

"Of everything we shared that weekend," Mycroft went on, easing a little deeper into his body, "the moment I've missed most is that kiss. I want to recreate it someday."

_Take me back. Check in with me. Tell them to put our names together on the door._

_Tell them all you love me too._

"Breathe, sweetheart," Mycroft whispered, and Greg felt his soul respond, breathing in this moment like he'd live another thousand years and he wanted to remember it for all of them. He tightened his arm around Mycroft's waist, trembling; he whimpered as Mycroft soothed the last of the way, as deep inside him as anyone could ever be, closer than his own skin. "There, my darling... all of me. Breathe and rest."

Greg nuzzled into Mycroft's neck, shaking.

Mycroft stroked through his hair as he settled. He kissed Greg's forehead; he murmured soft, soothing things - how perfect Greg felt, how warm - how beautiful he was like this. Greg let the words wrap around him like a blanket he'd never take off. _Oh my god, you want me. You care about me. You want people to see._

_Jesus, don't ever let me go -_

"Better?" Mycroft whispered at last, caressing his mouth along the column of Greg's neck.

Greg stirred, testing nervously with a stretch - the slickness inside him shifted, thick and firm. It felt good to move around it. He bit down into a moan - the sound escaped him anyway, exhaled out on his breath in relief.

"Mm?" Mycroft said, kissing his forehead. He brushed back Greg's hair. "A little more comfortable?"

Greg trembled, nodding. "B-Better..."

"Good." Mycroft's finger curled beneath his chin. "Then I'll ask for your eyes again, sweetheart."

They rested their foreheads together, shivering. Greg swallowed as Mycroft looked into him, somehow past his eyes - past walls of fear now turned to rubble, past the panic that yet again he was only wanted for a while, not for good. It felt like Mycroft could see him properly at last. He shook, squeezing with his knees either side of Mycroft's waist, and moved his hands to Mycroft's forearms.

He gripped gently, his fingers flexing.

"Please," he whispered. "Please..." _S-Shit. This is real._ "Make love to me. M'ready."

Mycroft held his gaze.

Slowly he began to move.

_Oh, fuck -_

Greg heard the words; he knew he must have gasped them. His reason had abandoned him, whirled away by the feeling of Mycroft's cock gently filling him again, easing thick and slow through his body. _Oh god, oh Christ - oh fuck - fuck, I want to come._ He wanted to squeeze around Mycroft right now and come panting for him, whimpering, just bear down and let all that gorgeous thickness take him straight over the edge, come in seconds staring into Mycroft's eyes.

Mycroft smiled, slow and easy; he watched Greg arch with the intensity of it.

"Good?" he whispered.

Greg pressed his teeth into his lip, nodding. He worked to relax his grip on Mycroft's forearms as his lover withdrew. "G-Good," he gasped. Mycroft thrust gently back inside him; his whole body tightened. _"Fuck...!"_

"That's it," Mycroft murmured again, brushing a kiss against his mouth. "Keep watching me, sweetheart. Keep showing me."

"I-I'm close - a-already - oh, _fuck_ \- oh god, oh fuck, you feel good - "

Mycroft changed nothing - kept moving slowly and gently inside Greg, a soft and steady fucking as he held Greg's gaze without faltering.

"Come whenever you need," he whispered. Greg moaned as his cock jumped against his own stomach, leaking clear already. He dug his fingers into Mycroft's arms.

"Want to l-last," he gasped. "F-For you - I want to show you. Please."

Mycroft smiled, shifting gently. His thrusts eased, shallowing inside Greg.

Greg exhaled in a shaking rush.

"Easier?" Mycroft said softly.

"Y-Yeah... yeah, a little - "

He watched Mycroft's eyes warm, enjoying the sight of him so close to losing control.

"Greg?" his lover said.

A shiver swept across the entirety of Greg's skin, tingling its way to the back of his neck. "Yeah, darlin'?"

"Do I categorise as some manner of boyfriend now?"

Helpless Greg grinned, gasping out a laugh between moans. "A-Are you asking on purpose to stop me coming?" he panted.

"Partially," Mycroft said, amused. "I'd also like to know."

Greg slid his hands up Mycroft's arms to reach his face, pulling him down to kiss. Their lips brushed; Greg felt his heart thundering happily between them as they kissed.

He had a feeling he'd remember this moment for an incredibly long time.

"Would you like to be?" he asked.

Mycroft smiled against his mouth. "I can't promise I'll be particularly good at it."

"J-Just do this to me twice a week. Let me cook for you. Let me text you all the time. Spoil me at Christmas."

"This all sounds rather easy." Mycroft dipped his head and nuzzled into his neck, biting gently. Little sparks of pleasure cascaded from the contact. "Only spoil you at Christmas? A shame."

 _"Fuck."_ Greg's head dropped back against the bed, pretty certain he was now glowing with happiness. He moaned as Mycroft's cock deepened its slow thrusting again. "Oh god, _fuck_ \- be my bloody boyfriend, Mycroft. Please."

The happiness in Mycroft's shiver would never fade in Greg's memory.

"I'll have the form sent to your office tomorrow," he whispered. His lips brushed across Greg's pulse. "I'm afraid it's eighteen pages."

Greg laughed, tightening his grip on Mycroft's back.

He felt Mycroft smile against his neck.

"Jesus," Greg breathed. "You're not joking."

"I'm afraid I'm not joking," Mycroft murmured, "but as a plus, nor are you coming."

_You gorgeous, perfect, utter bastard._

"Eighteen pages to take me to dinner," Greg said, panting. His lover shifted, sliding both hands smoothly beneath Greg's open thighs. "Bloody bureaucrats. Red tape gone mad."

Mycroft smirked, sitting back as he took hold of Greg's hips. "Am I worth eighteen pages?"

"Yes," Greg said without question, "but I'm still gonna complain."

As Mycroft lifted Greg's hips from the bed, dragged him up onto his thighs and began to thrust into him deeply, Greg lost every single thought of complaint. He cried aloud, arching; he reached above his head to push his hands against the headboard, bracing himself between the hard surface and the slam of Mycroft's cock. Pleasure pounded through him with every slow thrust. His thighs ached; his own prick dripped onto his stomach, wet with sheer fucking enjoyment.

This was heaven.

Through it, Mycroft's eyes stayed on his own - watching him pant, watching him beg, watching colour flood his face.

_Fuck, fuck - please - make me come. Make it too much for me. Make me yours._

_Fuck._

_Mine._

_Mine, mine - oh holy shit, mine -_

A few deep breaths away from coming, Greg watched a flicker of confusion cross his lover's face. The rhythm faltered; Mycroft seemed to pause, glancing across the room towards the sofa.

"W-What?" Greg panted, his heart hammering. He'd never needed to keep fucking so much in his life. He was so close.

Mycroft came to a careful stop, his breathing laboured.

"I believe..." he said, still looking across the room - and Greg caught the noise at last.

Somewhere among the clothing scattered about the couch, his phone had started to ring.

 


	14. Fragile Threads

"Oh - oh, Jesus, no - not _now - "_

Reeling, Mycroft's brain made the deduction for him. _Work._ The high-pitched, urgent tone was the kind one assigned specially for emergency use, not for everyday calls. It was a tone which said, _answer me. Now._ Small matters like circumstance were irrelevant.

Inhaling, forcing his focus from instinct onto reason, Mycroft reached down to withdraw himself from Greg's body. _Work is work._

"I'm sorry," Greg breathed, shaking. He _looked_ sorry. Mycroft couldn't recall ever seeing him this distressed, even when he'd been in pain. "That's my phone - bloody hell, of _all the times_ to - "

Separated, Mycroft reached up to cup his face with shaking hands.

"Hush," he whispered, leant down and kissed Greg, no less intense for its brevity. Greg's eyes flickered shut with distress. "I understand entirely," Mycroft murmured against his mouth. "Where is your phone?"

"My jeans - C-Christ, I'm sorry..."

"Stay there," Mycroft said, softly. "Catch your breath. You'll need to answer it in a moment, and you'll need to sound normal."

Greg swallowed, staring up at him. His pupils were wide and deep. "F-Fuck, if we'd had one more minute..."

Mycroft's heart contracted, overcome with the rawness of the expression. He'd never been looked at like that in his life - like he was longed for, needed, missed even though he was right here. It took him a moment to be able to speak.

"I know, darling," he murmured, telling himself that respect for Greg's duties was respect for Greg. "There will be plenty of other one more minutes. I promise you." With a last restrained kiss, he removed himself from the bed and crossed the flat in the darkness, taking care in the unfamiliar environment.

The ringtone was so loud and so piercing it was easy to follow it to its source. _Control,_ Mycroft noted on the screen, his heart tightening. He brought it back towards the bed.

Greg was still shaking. As he handed over the phone, Mycroft settled at his side and moved a hand at once to Greg's hair, brushing through it slowly to soothe him.

"Don't be angry with them," he said, gently. "It's merely their job."

Greg took a second to breathe in, his eyes tight shut. He then answered the phone with a slash of his thumb. He held it to his ear.

"Lestrade," he said, with the look of a man never so unhappy to hear his own name. He listened. "Yeah fine. Put her through."

More silence came. Mycroft stroked a thumb across Greg's forehead, watching him quietly. Some small and entirely selfish voice in the back of his heart repeated it like a prayer. _Please let it be a minor issue. Please let him stay._

"Sal," Greg said, shortly. "What is it?"

Silence.

_Some non-emergency. An error. A brief inquiry, no more._

"Did you say 'Crouch End'?" Greg said, bewildered. "What the hell's he doing in Crouch End? S'the other side of London."

Mycroft let his fingers steal gently to the back of Greg's neck, stroking small circles. _Not tonight. Not when I want you so close._

"Right," Greg muttered. "Well - look, this - this isn't a great time, Sal. Is there _anybody_ else? Anybody at all?"

Mycroft watched Greg lift a hand to his forehead, rubbing between his eyebrows as he listened. His expression darkened.

"Nobody at all," he said. The answer he received dropped his shoulders; Mycroft's heart sank with them. "And this is for definite, Sally - he was there in the last hour? You're certain?"

It wouldn't be easy to spend the rest of this night alone - cold in his own bed, aching for the skin of the man he loved, the man who might even love him in return - but Mycroft would have to make his peace with it. Duty came first.

"Right..." Greg sighed, weary. "Right, that's - fine. M'on my way. Get to Crouch End and I'll meet you there."

He hung up without waiting for response.

"Ian Starr." He threw the phone across the room at the sofa - it bounced off the back cushion, dropping with a muffled clunk among their clothes. _"Fuck._ For fuck's sake. Definitely in fucking Crouch End, storming into his cousin's house and assaulting her husband. He's gone, but if we get there quick..."

He pushed his hands across his face.

"God, of all the nights for - "

"Come here," Mycroft said, shifted closer, and pulled Greg into his arms. He locked them, tightly; Greg held onto him as he shook. "There is no reason whatsoever to be distressed. This man has caused you endless grief, and if you have an opportunity to lay hands on him, Greg, I _insist_ that you take it. You and I have many, many nights ahead of us. They will be far more restful with Ian Starr behind bars again."

Greg inhaled, shuddering. "I wanted this one for you," he said. "Just for you."

_God help me._

"I know," Mycroft said, softly. "But that choice has been taken from our hands."

He felt Greg's arms tighten around his waist. "If it's a false alarm..."

"Then so be it," Mycroft murmured. "You have to go all the same. Now come here, kiss me, and we will get dressed. I'd appreciate a text when you return home, to let me know that you're alright, but otherwise I'd like you to put me from your mind for the rest of the night."

Greg paused, shivering. He nuzzled into Mycroft's shoulder.

"If it's not him," he said, "or if he's vanished, then - I mean - I might be back in an hour or two."

Mycroft's heart skipped a beat. "Truly?"

"Y-Yeah." Greg lifted his head, nervously meeting Mycroft's eyes. "If you - I mean, if you're okay here - I might be able to come back. I can leave you with my key, if you have to take off in the morning. I don't mind."

It was a desperately appealing thought - staying here to keep the bed warm for Greg, to gather him back beneath the covers and resume their first night together as soon as he was released from his duties.

Even if that only happened in the small hours, it would be worth it.

"If you're certain," Mycroft said, with care. "If you don't mind me being here..."

Greg shivered, cupping his face.

"Of course I don't mind," he breathed. "Not at all. No reason for you to go bolting off." He gazed into Mycroft's face, his expression softening. "Help yourself to whatever you want, sunshine, okay? There's dessert left if you get hungry - or have a shower - watch a film, or sleep - I'll come back as quick as I can."

Mycroft's heart ached.

"Please be very safe," he begged.

"I promise, darlin'." Greg kissed him desperately, almost fiercely. His fingers raked through Mycroft's hair. "I promise. I'd - better get dressed."

_Please be careful. Don't you dare let him harm you._

"Go on, Greg. Your sergeant will be waiting."

It seemed only minutes before Greg was in his work trousers, a shirt and a thick jumper against the cold. Mycroft kept himself out of the way beneath the covers, watching quietly as Greg added four spoons of instant coffee to a travel flask.

"Better not try to fucking drive," Greg muttered, screwing on the lid. "Not after all that wine. I'll get a taxi from the main road... Jesus, who knew I'd ever _want_ a false alarm..."

He picked up a black sports bag from by the door, unzipped and checked it quickly. _Work items,_ Mycroft thought. He knew retired members of Greg's profession through his club. They loved to tell their windy stories of long years on call, the tools of their trade ready to grab as they left the house at three AM.

As Greg moved over to the bed, Mycroft's heart twinged.

"C'mere," Greg mumbled, bent down and pulled Mycroft up to kiss him, his fingers shaking. He kissed Mycroft as if they'd never see each other again. "M'sorry about this. I'm so sorry. It'll be funny someday."

Mycroft decided to hold onto the thought of Greg back here, safe, within a short span of time. Even just to sleep for a few hours together would be enough. The threads they'd looped around each other felt so tight, but so fragile - so _new._

Their last kiss goodbye caused him almost physical pain.

"Go, Greg," he said. His throat thickened as he slipped his fingers free from Greg's hair. "Go, darling. I'll see you very shortly."

Greg's expression tightened. He seemed to swallow something back, distressed by it.

"Bye, sunshine," he whispered and kissed Mycroft's forehead. "Sleep tight."

He pulled away, grabbed his flask from the bedside, and left.

The door slammed shut in his wake.

All other sound seemed to leave the flat with him. Mycroft listened to Greg's footsteps descend through the building until he couldn't discern them from the silence. Greg's playlist continued quietly in the corner, somehow now dull within the emptiness of the space.

 _This will make quite an anecdote,_ Mycroft told himself. His heart gave a gentle twinge. _Perhaps it will be amusing to tell before a toast someday._

 _Some details omitted,_ he thought, glancing down at his bare body.

He supposed he should occupy himself somehow. It was no more than ten minutes since he and Greg had been making love - sleep wouldn't be coming to him any time soon. He pushed back the crumpled bedsheets, retrieved his underwear and other clothes from by the sofa, and quietly pulled them on. It felt somehow unseemly to stroll around Greg's flat nude without the company of Greg.

Dressed, Mycroft moved towards the kitchen and turned on the hot water.

Covered by fabric, it was at first a little easier to dispel the curious sensation of vulnerability. He only realised the source of the feeling halfway through washing up the dinner things.

 _The key,_ he thought, glancing at the door. Greg had meant to leave it.

_Lord, I should have reminded him to..._

He could hardly request Greg now come back with it.

Mycroft finished the washing up quickly, now nervous in the heavy quiet, and made a brief search of all those places likely to harbour a spare. He blew out the candles and turned the lights on instead, calmed somehow by artificial brightness.

He found no key.

 _Unlikely a police officer would keep one under the doormat,_ he chided himself. _He has more sense than that, thank god..._

If he stuck to security procedure, he wouldn't have been sleeping in this flat at all - even if Greg were present. A locked or unlocked door was academic. This address wasn't listed among his approved residences, and any political enemy who truly wished to lay hands on him could get through the average lock _and_ Greg as easily as if both were made of marshmallow.

_For heaven's sake, I must settle. Anthea knows I am here._

_And I'm under no current threats._

Mycroft made himself tea - Greg had bags of camomile stashed by the microwave. The gentle clink of the spoon settled him enough to choose a film from Greg's selection. He got comfortable on the sofa to watch it, realising after a few minutes that he could still smell Greg's cologne on the cushions. They'd laid here kissing and undressing each other in the candlelight. It felt as if Greg had only just left - as if he'd still be out there on the stairs, as if he'd respond if Mycroft opened the door and called his name.

 _By the time the film ends,_ Mycroft thought, holding the mug of tea quietly against his stomach, _he'll be here again. We will be settled asleep in bed._

_If he isn't back by then..._

He thought briefly of arranging a car.

 _Not an approved residence,_ he thought uneasily. _Would be logged. Questions asked._ Such an eventuality could be circumvented by arranging transport through Anthea - but the poor woman would likely be in bed by now. She had the Cabinet Secretary to meet with in the morning.

_And I cannot leave Greg's flat unlocked and unguarded._

Mycroft closed his eyes, lifting the mug to his nose to breathe in the steam of his tea.

 _I am emotionally sensitised,_ he thought, _because of this evening's developments. I dearly wish him to return quickly and I'm processing that as vulnerability. And we were interrupted while... close. The hormones didn't reach their necessary release._

_I am perfectly fine._

He drank his tea as he repeated the gentle assertions in his mind. He was glad he'd picked _My Fair Lady;_ it was soothing.

As he relaxed he began to imagine Greg, cold somewhere in the streets of Crouch End, doing his duty. _A modern hero,_ he thought, his heart beating softly. _Pulled from my arms to tend to the safety of the populace._

_Perhaps thinking of me._

It almost felt too miraculous to have truly happened.

 _'I thought you wouldn't want me,'_ Greg had said. _'I thought you'd never - s-someone like me.'_

_'Spoil me at Christmas.'_

Cradling the still warm mug, Mycroft let his eyes fall shut. _Cliveden,_ he thought. _The entire week._ He hadn't any idea what sort of gifts one bought a boyfriend for Christmas, but Greg would be having absolutely all of them. He hoped Anthea had some incredibly decadent suggestions to make. _Dear god, he's mine... he cares for me._

_And he's coming back to me._

_How will I tell Anthea tomorrow?_ he thought, experiencing an almost giddy leap at the prospect. He wouldn't be surprised if she'd kept the forms. In twenty-four hours, they'd be in the processing stage. Greg Lestrade would be entering British military intelligence personnel records as the intimate partner of Mycroft Holmes.

 _'My boyfriend Greg,'_ he'd be able to say.

There was nothing more settling in the world.

As he boiled the kettle for a second mug of tea, Mycroft thought he heard a faint creak. He glanced around, wondering what had caused the noise.

The door of the flat was opening.

Panic drove in a spike through his heart. Before he'd even seen anyone appear, his hand locked around the handle of the kettle and he froze.

" - even lock his fuckin' door," he heard a voice say, and there came a second low laugh. Mycroft's pulse screamed upwards. "Needn't've bothered draggin' the tools along."

The men who stepped into the flat were dressed in dark sportswear, hoods pulled up and with scarves across their faces to avoid security cameras. One carried a sports holdall - the other a petrol can.

Horror flooded through Mycroft's system. There was no place for him to hide, no way he could move without being seen.

"Right," the first said, dropping the heavy holdall by the door. "Get to work, mate. Soak the lot and do it quick. We 'aven't got long."

The man with the petrol can grunted, turning towards the kitchen corner.

As he did, he spotted Mycroft.

The sight of an unexpected person was enough to make the man jump in alarm. Mycroft flinched. As he jerked out of his panicked paralysis, his feet seemed to kick into motion of their own accord, staggering backwards until his back found the fridge.

"Whoa! Wait - fuck - which flat was - "

"Three. This is three, right?"

"Says three on the fuckin' door." The man who'd brought the holdall was the younger and sharper of the two. He dragged back his hood and pulled the scarf from his pale and acne-riddled face. His expression contorted with the aggression certain classes of Londoner seemed to employ against strangers by default. "You!" he barked at Mycroft. "This is Lestrade's flat, isnit?"

Mycroft's higher functions had vaporised themselves into nothing. They were gone. They'd left him to deal with this alone, and no sound left his throat as he scrabbled desperately for any notion of what to do.

_You're here to - you've come to -_

_Oh, god -_

"Who the fuck are you?" the young man demanded.

Mycroft said nothing. His heart was about to crack its way free through his ribs. He watched in panic as the second man looked him over, noting with a frown his open shirt, his bare feet, the state of his hair.

Ugly realisation dawned.

"Holy shit," the man breathed. "Lestrade's a queer."

_No - no, no - no, please -_

"The fuck?" the younger man said. "Wasn't he fuckin' married? There was a wife, wasn't there?"

"Doesn't mean he can't've turned queer since."

"Is this for real?" the man demanded, turning to Mycroft. "You're his - _boyfriend_ then, are you?"

"No - no, I - "

"What the fuck're you doing in here, then?"

_My life spent among professional liars. And I can't think of a single one._

"Stayin' over with him, were you?" the man said, and glanced into the corner. "S'only one fuckin' bed here. You're his - _partner._ Lestrade's queer." He turned to his companion. "What the fuck d'we do? He said there wouldn't be anyone 'ere."

"He's seen us now, mate. Seen our faces."

"Fuck this. He said he'd fuckin' covered everythin'. This was meant to be easy."

"Can't just leave, though, can we?"

Mycroft's mind strayed wildly towards the cooking knives drying on the draining rack. _Weapons. Arm yourself._ An almost hysterical second voice intervened at once. _You're going to engage them in combat, are you? Two thugs carrying petrol?_ The larger one looked as if he could crush the life out of something with his bare hands. The younger one almost certainly carried a knife he knew how to use.

_Phone._

As he watched them argue, Mycroft's pulse skittered.

_Phone. Now._

Moving his hand as carefully as he could, he slipped his fingers into his pocket. His phone was there, carried out of habit. His thumb found its way to the home button. Blindly he pressed, then held it in place long enough for the sensor to read his fingerprint. He had no way of knowing if it had worked. He could only hope.

He tapped where the application for calls should be.

_God help me - god almighty, I can't even -_

If it had loaded as it should, the number keypad would be roughly central to the screen. He'd used this phone for three years, and suddenly found himself questioning everything he knew of it. As the two men continued to argue, Mycroft pressed where his instincts brought his thumb for nine, three times in shaking silence, then moved down to the unseen green circle to call.

He pressed.

_Perhaps._

_Perhaps still on the lockscreen, my fingerprint unregistered._

" - in the neck from the boss," the larger man grunted. "He said burn it down. M'burning it down."

"Right," said the young man. "Fine. S'do that."

Mycroft's every muscle hardened into rock. _Knife. Get a knife. Fight them._ They meant to seal him in here. They were going to burn him alive in Greg's flat.

Before he could even take a step towards the draining rack, the young man said,

"You can handle the flat by y'self, yeah?"

"Yeah. Know what I'm doing. You take him."

Mycroft froze.

The young man reached into the pocket of his trousers, withdrew a flick-knife, and opened it with a _schink._

"You," he said, staring at Mycroft. "C'mon."

Mycroft didn't understand.

"What - " He swallowed to speak. "W-What are you - "

 _"I said c'mon!"_ the young man barked, brandishing the knife. "Let's go! You're comin' the fuck with us. Make one wrong move and I'll fuckin' empty you across the floor, right?"

_Resist kidnap._

The words of Mycroft's field-training instructor returned to him as if they'd been spoken only last week - not twenty years ago. As a young man whose joints didn't hurt in cold weather, who feared nothing but failure,  _resist by all means necessary_  had seemed a perfectly straightforward endeavour. It was meant to protect British secrets; if resistance ended in their keeper's death then so be it, for the good of the nation. An honourable death for an honourable cause.

Mycroft hadn't realised this scenario would finally open before him in his mid-forties, with his back aching from even fairly slow sex and several glasses of wine thickening his blood.

And this wasn't about British secrets.

This was about almost certain death at the hands of some pimply Peckham lowlife, his body then consumed by petrol fire. These men had no notion of who he was. 

Greg had been drawn away on purpose. It must be a false lead; Greg would realise it soon. He'd return to his flat. He'd find Mycroft missing and the place burning down. He'd realise what had happened.

 _This is for now the safest course of action,_ Mycroft told himself, as the scrawny young man twisted his arm behind his back and forced him down the stairs. He could sense the open blade somewhere in his vicinity, up near his jaw, near his face. He tried not to look for it. He could hear some further muttered threats in his ear, but the words meant nothing.

_Greg will realise._

There was a car waiting by the road, its engine running.

As he was forced towards it, Mycroft recalled the phone in his pocket. If he'd managed to reach the emergency services, the line would be kept open and monitored.

"Where are you taking me?" he asked, as the man forced him down into the backseat. "Where are we going?"

"Shut your fuckin' mouth," was the snarled response.

The driver of the car looked around in alarm, eyes widening beneath his baseball cap. "Hey, hey - what the fuck, man, who's this?"

"Lestrade's," the man grunted. "Found 'im inside."

"Are you havin' a laugh? Knife him and burn the body in there! What you bringin' him in my car for?"

"I wasn't told nothing about murder!" Mycroft's captor retorted. "I didn't agree to fuckin' _murder,_ alright? So he's comin' with us. Shut the fuck up and drive."

The car door slammed.

"Ian can decide what to do with him."

 


	15. Concrete

It made no sense.

According to Ian Starr's cousin, he'd shoved his way through her front door unannounced at exactly ten o' clock. The evening news had just started on TV. She hadn't seen Ian in six years, not since a family wedding - she'd only recognised him when he started shouting. _"I know you spoke to the pigs. I know it's you."_ Her husband stood up from the sofa to try and reason with Ian, calm him down.

Ian had slugged him across the face, sending him reeling into the TV - then coolly turned and left. She'd been too upset to notice if he got into a car or not. Her husband's cheekbone was broken; they'd sent him off to hospital now.

From the look of the house and the lounge, it had all happened as the couple described. The TV was off its stand; a crack in the wall marked where it fell. Blood had smeared across a nearby bookshelf. There were muddy footprints along the carpet in the hallway, offering the clearest boot markings any investigating officer could ever ask for, and Ian had been shouting so loudly that even the neighbours through the wall could confirm some of what he'd said.

Ian's cousin gave her statement nearly crying with distress.

"I don't understand," she kept saying, sobbing as Sally handed her tissues. "I h-haven't seen him in years. I've never spoken to the police about him. _Never._ I didn't think he knew where I live."

Street teams were out searching for Ian. The people across the road thought they'd seen a grey Citroen driving off about that time, but it was too late to wake up the rest of the street now. In the morning they'd get uniform out to hunt down any private security footage, see if they could get a number plate. Every late night patrol car around Crouch End had been sent Ian's description and a plea to look out for him, as well as a grey Citroen. Officers in Peckham had been alerted too. It would take him a while to get back across London - they could at least be ready for him.

It was hard to see what else could be done tonight. Ian had appeared and disappeared within minutes. He could be anywhere.

Greg could feel it in his bones - they weren't going to find him.

The bastard had gone to ground again, back into the shadows without a sound. All they could do was add this to the long list of things to ask him about when he _did_ turn up.

As SOCOs arrived to take evidence, Greg realised he could now leave this in someone else's hands - there wasn't anything to progress until tomorrow. He could get another taxi back to Barking, back to Mycroft, and they could salvage something of their first real night together. With the thought came a strange and unsettling guilt. He'd felt crap ditching Mycroft for work; he now felt crap ditching work for Mycroft. He didn't want Sally to think he was belting off at the first chance, leaving her to tidy up the mess.

She'd noted his reluctance to be here as soon as he arrived.

"Sorry..." she'd said gingerly, watching him approach with his travel flask in hand. "Were you - in the middle of something?"

"No," he'd grunted, well aware he smelled of posh cologne. "Let's get on."

But with no news of Ian Starr from the street teams, and nothing making any more sense than it had an hour ago, there was no real reason for Greg to be here. His longing to return to Mycroft began to win out against his guilt.

He found Sally in discussion with the Crime Scene Manager. As their conversation wrapped up, he touched her quietly on the elbow for a word.

"Are you heading off?" she asked, as she turned to him. "I can handle the rest from here. There's not too much to log, and at least we know who did it..."

Greg's stomach twisted. "Would you hate me if I did?" he said.

"Nah, sir. Whatever brought Ian round here, only he knows. Victims certainly didn't have a clue... and there's nothing a broken TV and a few bloodspots'll tell us." Sally patted him on the back. "Go on, head off. Your turn for coffee in the morning."

"Right - sure. Thanks, Sally. See you tomorrow."

Greg headed for the front door, fishing for his phone inside his coat. Mycroft might be asleep by now. He didn't want to wake him up - but if there was any chance they could still have the rest of the night...

As he stepped out onto the path, something occurred to Greg he hadn't realised before.

He paused, phone in hand, and glanced back through the open front door. Ian's bootprints were visible even from here, dark and crisp against the carpet.

Greg frowned.

He knelt down, pressing his fingertips against the hard stone path. _Damp._ A little rain early in the evening.

_Where did he pick up mud...?_

As his gaze strayed to the lawn, Greg's heart gripped. He didn't even need forensics to see it - there was a flattened patch of grass just off the path, sunken slightly from the weight of someone stepping into it and pressing up and down. Greg glanced at the path beneath him. The muddy prints tracked from the lawn to the doorstep, then up into the house.

_Why would he purposely...?_

A strange, shivery possibility began to occur.

_Someone who'd identify him beyond doubt. Bootprints to seal the deal._

Ian Starr had been making sure there was proof he was here.

_Ten o'clock exactly. Fix the time by the news._

_Jesus._

"Sally!" Greg shouted. He got to his feet. "Sally, get this garden taped off as a crime scene! He's purposely - "

Sally appeared in the hallway.

She was pale, her radio cupped against her ear. She held up a hand to stop him before he could say another word, listening intently. Greg dropped into silence. _Christ - christ, please say they've got him -_

"Right," she muttered into the radio. "Right. We're coming. Over and out."

She clipped it back onto her belt, striding along the hall towards him.

"What is it?" Greg said. He searched her face. "Has somebody found him? He's made prints on purpose. He picked someone who'd recognise him and confirm he was here. This is build-your-own-alibi."

"We need to go," Sally said. Greg felt his stomach lurch. "We - s-shit, sir - I'm sorry - the fire service are at your flat. They're on the scene right now."

Greg's brain sparked.

"The fire service?" he said. "What d'you mean, 'on the scene'?"

"They're tackling a major blaze." Sally's expression tightened. "Whole building's gone up. It's burning down."

_Oh -_

_Oh my god -_

 

*

 

Mycroft attempted to track the route as they drove.

They crossed the Thames just before Canary Wharf then passed through Greenwich at speed. His practical knowledge of the city south of the river was close to zero; he'd never felt so useless in his life, so unable to control the situation around him. Time seemed to be screaming by without any sort of marker. Though he knew they'd been driving for some time, he couldn't gauge how long with any accuracy.

In a residential backstreet somewhere, his captors dragged him from the car at knifepoint into another vehicle, apparently arranged ready for this purpose.

_Avoiding plate recognition technology._

_Avoiding CCTV._

He made the deductions as if this were happening to somebody else. It was the only way to stay calm.

They doubled back and headed west along the A206. The car finally turned down a backstreet past a derelict block of flats. They crossed a large expanse of what seemed to be former industrial land, thick with weeds and fly-tipped broken furniture, overlooked on all sides by Victorian brick warehouses and workshops long fallen into disrepair. The buildings stood like hollow shells, eerie in the glow of sparse yellow security lights. Their windows were smashed, their once proud faces now spattered with graffiti. Misery ached from the sad structures in waves.

At the far end of the wasteland, an abandoned electricity station awaited them.

Recognising a final destination, the paralysis of Mycroft's panic broke. His heart began to pound again, his skin suddenly flushing with sweat. _This is the sort of place people are taken to be killed._ Now he'd thought it, he couldn't think anything else.

The car came to a stop outside an old worker's entrance. The doors clunked open; the knife reappeared with a flick at his throat.

The young man with acne glared at him, eyes hard.

"Out," he barked at Mycroft. "Now."

 _I cannot fight._ There were three of them, three hardened young men to whom physical violence was an everyday facet of life. Mycroft was barefoot, alone and unarmed. He didn't think he could aim a punch in this moment even if he knew how to throw one effectively.

_But I cannot go with them. I cannot go into that building._

The moment's indecision cost him dearly.

As a hand closed in his hair, wrenching him sideways out of the car, agony blistered across Mycroft's scalp. He twisted, struggling against the vicious grip. A second hand clamped over his mouth to muffle him, cruel digging fingers and sour-smelling skin, and his captor began to drag him towards the door. His feet stumbled without purchase over the rough ground, jagged by sharp rocks and shards of old glass.

_Resist. Try._

_Perhaps the only chance to try._

Mycroft threw his hands up, locked them around the man's forearms and used the leverage to twist, slamming his knee up into something soft. The man groaned, buckled and started to drop. The arms around Mycroft loosened.

He turned to run. If he was to be a statistic, better a statistic on his feet.

He managed all of three metres before the larger man lunged into his path, seized him by the shoulder and buried a fist into his abdomen.

The sheer force of the blow drove the breath from Mycroft's lungs. Pain burst through his body at once, sharp. It grew and grew until he contained nothing but the pain, every sense rendered white and useless with the ferocity of it. He couldn't breathe. He could only coil around it and try to retrieve himself from amidst the agony, blinded, ringing in every cell.

"Shouldn't have brought 'im," came a grunt, somewhere on the very edges of his consciousness. "Should've dealt with 'im there. Left 'im for the fire."

"I take orders from the boss - right? Not from either of you fuckers. Pick 'im up."

"You fuckin' pick him up, man, you so fuckin' fonda him!"

Mycroft wretched as heavy hands forcibly uncurled him. He could barely move. _I grew old,_ he thought as they hefted him up, then half-carried and half-dragged him towards the building. _This is not my world._

The slam of metal doors echoed in the concrete space. As he stumbled between them, still nauseous with pain, the stench of natural decay overwhelmed his nose and mouth. His feet burned upon the cold stone floor.

_Anthea will notice when I fail to arrive for -_

_Oh - god -_

_The Cabinet Secretary - until mid-morning -_

Corridors and doorways blurred. On a long stretch of hallway, the young man finally kicked open a door and held it wide. The room beyond was a small concrete space, little bigger than a cell. Banks of decommissioned switches covered one wall.

They shoved Mycroft inside, dragged him across to a metal cabinet and forced him down onto the floor. Heavy hands pinned his shoulders back against the wall.

Mycroft's pulse leapt. It hurt to speak.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

They didn't answer. One of them wrenched his wrists back against a metal pipe running around the base of the walls.

Realisation dawned.

Mycroft inhaled, shut his eyes and stayed still, quietly tensing his forearms. It would ensure a fraction of extra space in whatever bindings they used - a fraction which might make the difference between leaving this place alive and never being found. He heard the metal clang of the cabinet, the stiff rip of cardboard and then a rustle. He waited, trying to slow the banging of his heart.

Finally, a band of plastic looped around his wrist. A telltale zip secured it tight.

As they bound the other wrist into place, cold spread its way across Mycroft's chest. Muscle tension wouldn't do a thing to loosen industrial zip-ties. He was more likely to lethally lacerate his wrists in the attempt than to free them.

_They have done this before._

_This is the usual procedure._

"Shall I go get Ian?" one of them asked the others. Mycroft kept his eyes closed, still trying to assimilate the pain in his abdomen into his other senses.

"Won't be back yet. Gotta get here from Crouch End."

"What's he doin' in fuckin' Crouch End?"

"Makin' sure someone sees him there, isn't he? Then Lestrade's flat burnin' down is nothin' to do with him."

Mycroft guided his focus onto his breathing - quietly in, quietly out. _There is time,_ he told himself. _Time left before Starr returns. Time for me to be found._

"D'you get it done, by the way?"

They were walking away, leaving him secured here. They knew the ties would do their job.

"Yeah, got it done... soaked it good. Went up like you wouldn't believe. _Whoomph."_

"Ha! Brilliant..."

The light switched off. The door creaked and slammed.

Mycroft waited until he could be certain they were gone, his thoughts echoing around him in the silence.

He tensed his wrists against the zip-ties. The sharp teeth of the thick black bands dug into his skin; the pricks of controllable pain brought him enough clarity to reach for calm. _I am alive. The threat is not immediate for now. Calm._

_Calm._

The mobile phone in his pocket had now passed inside a building. These walls were thick and the call might never have connected in the first place. It seemed a stretch of hope too far.

But it was one of very few hopes at his disposal, and he would use it.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes," he said, praying his voice could be picked up. "I was on Ripple Road in Barking with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Three men have taken me from there and I am now in a disused electricity station in South London. I believe they intend to harm me. Please tell DI Lestrade they're associates of Ian Starr. Please tell him that I'm here."

The silence ached. Nothing moved.

"Please," Mycroft said, as his shoulders began to shake. "Please tell him."

 

*

 

A tell-tale bloody glow could be seen in the sky almost ten minutes away. By the time they reached the flat, flames had destroyed most of the building and advanced to neighbouring premises. The street was cordoned off; the fire brigade were here, waging what battle they could against the rapidly spreading fire. At the barrier, evacuated families huddled together for warmth and to cry, staring in helpless horror at the flames now consuming their homes.

Greg didn't wait for Sally's car to stop. He staggered from it the second they pulled up at the barrier, ducked beneath the tape and ran towards the police car monitoring the situation.

It was DI Tunstall. She saw him coming in the light of the flames; her whole face flooded with pity.

"Greg," she said as he reached her. "Greg, I'm so s-"

_"Did they get everybody out!?"_

"We don't know for sure. The alarms in the restaurant woke half the street. The only person we've been told might be missing is you."

Greg looked in panic towards the flames. They were burning from the middle floor - from his flat.

"My boyfriend," he gasped, his heart screaming in panic. "My boyfriend was in my flat - Mycroft - Mycroft Holmes, he's my partner - has anybody seen him? Has anybody seen Mycroft?"

DI Tunstall grabbed for her radio, pulling it up to her mouth.

"All units, we're looking for DI Lestrade's partner - _'Mycroft Holmes'_ \- repeat, that's _'Mycroft Holmes'_ \- known to be in the building when the fire broke out - can we locate him quickly please?"

_Lured me away. Got me out on purpose to burn it down._

_Didn't know._

_Didn't know Mycroft was in there too._

Tunstall's radio crackled. _"Boss,"_ someone asked, _"can we get a description of her?"_

_Jesus. Jesus fucking Christ._

"He's my age," Greg said, his heart smashing itself apart with every word. "White. Tall, fair-skinned. Red hair. Please. Find him."

As Tunstall relayed the description, nervously stressing a white _male_ in his mid-forties, Greg watched the fire service get a second water cannon into action. Another engine was arriving on the scene. Those flames would still be burning by dawn.

_Oh fuck, if he was asleep -_

_If he got trapped -_

_Fuck, no - please no - please god, please -_

A hand closed on Greg's arm.

He turned, his pulse lurching.

It was Sally.

"Had a call from control," she said. "Come on. We need to get away from the noise so you can hear this."

 _"We need to find him!"_ Greg raged at her, shaking so hard he could barely form the words. "He was _in there,_ he was _inside the fucking flat,_ Mycroft, I left him to - "

Sally shouted over him, pulling him towards Tunstall's car.

"There was a weird 999 call from a mobile phone," she said, "just before the fire - get in - "

She forced him into the passenger seat, slammed the door and got in beside him. The chaos of the engines and the radio muffled; she ramped up the volume on her mobile phone's speaker.

"They've amplified the first few minutes," she said, pressing play. "Seems like the call was made covertly."

The call handler spoke first, quick and clean, her tones abnormally loud on the recording.

"Hello, police emergency. What's the address you're calling from?"

Muffled speech could be heard. Greg leant closer to the phone, trying to discern the words.

_" - said burn it down. M'burning it down."_

_"Right. Fine. S'do that."_

"Hello?" the call handler tried, louder. "Hello, do you need help?"

_" - y'self, yeah?"_

_"Yeah. Know what I'm doing. You take him."_

Greg's heart turned to rock. Sally gripped his shoulder, steadying him as he listened.

"Hello, can you hear me?" the operator tried one last time, drowning out a few words.

The next voice which spoke was closer to the phone and more audible.

It was Mycroft.

_"What - w-what are you - "_

_"I said c'mon! Let's go! You're comin' the fuck with us. Make one wrong move and I'll fuckin' empty you across the floor, right?"_

Greg's heart reeled.

Sally held him up, her jaw set; the phone shook in her hand.

"There's nothing for a few minutes," she said, skipping ahead on the recording. "Call handler stays quiet to listen. She's worked out he's in danger. There's sounds of them heading downstairs, a car door opening, then..."

She hit play.

 _"Where are you taking me?"_ Mycroft's voice came clear on the line, steady and frightened at once. _"Where are we going?"_

Greg's stomach heaved. _So we'd know,_ he thought. _So we'd hear. So I can find you._

 _"Shut your fuckin' mouth,"_ growled a voice on the recording, then scuffling as Mycroft and the phone were forced inside the vehicle.

Other voices spoke, louder inside the closed space.

_"Hey, hey - what the fuck, man, who's this?"_

_"Lestrade's."_ Greg's heart clenched, his eyes shutting tight. _"Found 'im inside."_

_"Are you havin' a laugh? Knife him and burn the body in there! What you bringin' him in my car for?"_

_"I wasn't told nothing about murder! I didn't agree to fuckin' murder, alright? So he's comin' with us. Shut the fuck up and drive. Ian can decide what to do with him."_

Sally stopped the audio.

"The call's still connected now," she said. "No sound. He's in a moving vehicle and they're having trouble tracking it. Who have they got?"

Greg looked into her face.

_He's alive._

_He's alive and he - he needs -_

"My partner," he said. His voice tightened. "Mycroft. He's - he's my - he was staying with me. I left him. Left him to find Ian fucking Starr - "

Sally gripped his arms as he began to shake.

"Hey," she said. "Hey - steady. He's not in that fire. Right? He's alive. And if Ian Starr's got him, he's going to need you. He needs you to handle this."

_He needs me._

_He needs me -_

There came a knock on the window. Greg dragged in a breath, crushing his distress down beneath resolve. He would cry later. He would cry himself into a husk the second he had Mycroft safe in his arms again, and if he never fucking stopped crying, so be it. But it wouldn't fix a single thing right now.

He twisted in his seat, opening the door to DI Tunstall. "Yeah?"

"Greg, we've - we've not had any sign of him - "

"We know where he is," Greg said. He forced himself out of the car. "Tell them he's out of the building. He's not in there. Are you okay handling things here? I need to do something."

"Sure - is there any way we can help?"

"No, just keep order here. Thanks." Greg looked for Sally - she was already at his heels, hurrying behind him as he ran towards the barrier. "I was drinking all evening," he told her. "I need you to drive and I need you to break some bloody speed limits."

"Where are we going?"

"Covent Garden. Myc's flat. I don't know how else to find them, but we need them."

"'Them'?"

"Mycroft's people. Come on - _quick_ \- "

 


	16. Major Problem

"Here! Stop here - " 

As Sally's car screeched to a halt against the pavement, Greg shoved open the door and leapt out. He ran to the familiar entryway and searched it, his heart thumping in his throat. There was a security camera mounted high up on the wall, overlooking the street, but Christ alone knew if it was watched twenty-four hours a day. Mycroft wasn't even staying here tonight. It could be unmanned.

They'd have to do better than that.

There was only one way to get their attention for sure.

"Have you got a baton in your car?" he asked as Sally hurried to his side.

She shot him a wild-eyed look. 

"Are you going to do what I think you're going to do?"

Greg held her stare. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

Sally fetched the baton.

The moment the bedroom window cracked, an alarm began to shriek inside. Greg smashed his way through for good measure, hoping it would speed things up. More and more sound escaped until the piercing scream was lighting up windows all along the street. Sally shouted into her radio, two fingers jammed in the other ear.

_ " - Floral Street, Covent Garden _ \- if you get calls - no, it's  _ us _ \- it's  _ me and DI Lestrade - " _

Greg handed her the baton back, drew his Scotland Yard ID from inside his coat, and stood clear of the building to wait.

In less than two minutes, a black car rounded the corner. 

It slid to a halt a safe distance away. Both back doors swept open at once. Two men in suits got out, raised firearms without a blink and trained both of them on Greg.

"Identify yourself," came the brisk command.

Greg held up his ID, heart thundering with equal measures of fear and relief. 

"DI Lestrade," he said, as the shrieks of the alarm came to a sudden stop. "Scotland Yard. Shall I throw it?"

The agent who had spoken paused, apparently surprised by the compliance. "Then get your hands up," he said.

Greg tossed his ID into the road. 

The man downed his gun with a frown. He retrieved the badge and studied it at length, his mouth pulling flat at the corner.

Reluctantly satisfied, he said,

"What are you doing here, inspector? This residence is under the protection of the British security services."

Greg could feel Sally's silent amazement rolling off her in waves.

"We need your help," he said, calmly. "It's for Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. I'm a - friend of his. His partner. I've not done the paperwork yet and please, Christ, don't ask me what actual job he does, but he's in trouble right now and I need your help."

The agent processed this with a raised eyebrow, still holding Greg's ID. He didn't seem particularly convinced.

Before he could speak, the sound of a ringing phone broke the silence. 

The agent's expression flickered, as if he'd undergone a brief technical glitch. He slid a hand inside his suit. He drew out his phone, answered it one-handed, and held it up to his ear.

"Yes?"

There was a long pause. Greg waited, watching, wondering whose call was so important it got answered in the middle of  _ this.  _

The agent studied Greg's face as he listened.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "Lestrade, Gregory. The ID is legitimate."

_ God. _

The agent listened for a moment more - then held the phone out.

Greg stared at it.

The man raised an eyebrow. "It's for you, inspector."

Greg took the phone, intensely wary. Keeping his eyes on the armed men in front of him, he lifted the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he tried.

The voice which answered was soft, calm, and perfectly in control. 

"Inspector Lestrade, my name is Anthea. What has happened to Mr Holmes?"

 

*

 

_ He'll have been contacted. His flat.  _

_ He'll have asked about me. _

_ A search will now be underway. _

It felt as if Mycroft had been here for most of the night. In the darkness and silence, his perception of time was so badly warped he couldn't trust it. The pain in his abdomen had dulled, but not gone.  _ Some degree of internal damage.  _ He was attempting to overcome the ebb and flow of his panic by guiding his thoughts to positivity, but an incredibly firm hand had been required. All too easily his mind drifted instead to the worst case scenario. His professional career had been spent identifying and averting worst case scenarios. He was now in one, with nothing to speed its passing but to mine his own memories in desperate search of calm.

Short hours ago, this had felt like the happiest day of his adult life. 

He'd been looking forward to telling Anthea.  _ He cares for me. He wishes to be with me.  _ Greg had been joking about Christmas, long months into the future, speaking with an unquestioned conviction they would be together then.  _ Cliveden. Spoil you.  _ The thought had made Mycroft happy in ways he'd never been, never in his life. There was so much to learn - but he  _ wanted _ to learn. He would devote whatever time was needed to becoming an excellent partner. Greg would want for nothing. 

The ties on his wrists now cut into his circulation if he moved. 

Painful tingles ached along his arms; there was no position he could assume to relieve the tension in his back. To distract himself, he took to imagining how he would comfort Greg in his place - what he would say to his lover, restrained this way and injured, restless in the dark. 

_ My darling, I'm so sorry. I will find them for you and I will hurt them. I will never let you leave my arms again. I will care for you until every shade of this memory is soothed away forever. I will make them answer to you, sweetheart. I will make it alright. _

He could still smell traces of Greg's cologne on the collar of his shirt. Isolated from his other senses, in his calmer moments the scent felt as comforting to Mycroft as loving arms. 

When the panic began to return, he couldn't repress the thought that there were many people a south London ganglord might harm as a matter of principle. 

A police officer's gay lover would come high on that list. 

Mycroft's authority, his power, his twenty-year career, meant nothing to these men. In the hands of criminals,  _ real  _ criminals, his entire twenty-year career became almost hilariously irrelevant. This was not his world. This was Greg's world, and the villains who occupied it did not dabble in card games of power on long weekends in country hotels. They ripped power still beating from the chests of the weak.

He was no longer Mycroft Holmes, advisor to the British government.

He was just Lestrade's - and the cologne whispering from his collar might warrant his execution.

_ You promised me.  _

The memory brought pain and comfort at once, sharp and hot in Mycroft's throat. He breathed it down.

_ Our debt of reciprocation.  _

_ I need you, and so you will be here. _

_ You will take me somewhere quiet, somewhere safe - take me from this place -  _

_ \- and then -  _

_ \- then I will be alright - _

His throat thickened.

_ Then I will be afraid.  _

He tried to breathe, begging the rising surge of panic to settle. He'd been calm for several minutes now, waiting quietly and keeping himself company. He didn't wish to swing towards fear again. 

_ No, no. There is nothing to fear. This is not helpful.  _

_ I must be calm until someone gets here. _

 

*

 

Lestrade's voice carried clear across the room.

"The situation is this," he said, as the overhead lights flickered out. Darkness fell. Silence filled the room. "In the last two hours, associates of the Peckham ganglord Ian Starr have set light to a residential building in Barking, leading to several casualties. They've also taken a hostage."

He stood alone in the light, upright and unafraid. Only the dark smudges beneath his eyes revealed any hint of strain. It was the middle of the night. His Scotland Yard team had been summoned from their beds and now listened to his every word without a sound. 

The projector screen behind him showed what little concrete information they had - brief facts, a map of the important locations within wider London, estimated times. 

Towards the back of the room Anthea stood with her people, her phone loose in her hand. They were the country's best, hand-picked to navigate this unthinkable situation.

As she watched Lestrade continue, her heart drummed quietly in her chest. 

"The building they torched was where I live," he said. "It looks like my flat was the target." He pressed the remote in his hand to switch to the next screen. A file photograph of Mr Holmes appeared, with a text box relaying what few details the Official Secrets Act would permit to be shared. 

The briefest pause stalled Lestrade's focus. 

"The hostage is my partner Mycroft," he said.

This was the first his team had ever heard of this aspect of his private life - his sexuality, his relationships with other men. The night's events had now forced him to out himself to every colleague he had, ten foot high on a projector screen. 

He'd done it without hesitation.

Anthea inhaled in silence.  _ If you could see this, Mr Holmes. If you could see him now. _

"At the time of the arson attack," Lestrade went on, so calmly it caused her almost physical pain, "Ian Starr himself was across the city in Crouch End, making sure he was seen and remembered for a common assault. It looks like he wanted to dodge any responsibility for the fire. It also looks like Mycroft was taken as a spur-of-the-moment decision by Ian's boys. There's no evidence this was pre-planned."

Anthea flattered herself that a pre-planned kidnapping would have been spotted and neutralised at its earliest stages. She spent a heavy proportion of her waking hours monitoring the risks posed to Mr Holmes by foreign spies and political enemies, ensuring all reasonable steps were being taken to lessen any threat. 

For him to be seized by some opportunistic criminal, purely through his association with Lestrade...

And yet they were now dealing with it.

"There's a strong chance Ian doesn't realise we're on his tail," Lestrade went on, glancing up at Mycroft's photograph on the wall behind him. His eyes stayed there. "Mycroft contacted the emergency services covertly. It's bought us time. We  _ need _ to keep our awareness under wraps, to stop Ian being prompted into any rash decisions."

He flicked to the next screen - a detailed map of Ripple Road.

"We know Mycroft was driven from the scene," he said. "So I'm going to need CCTV pulled from around the immediate area, as well as traffic cameras and ANPR as a priority. Mycroft's emergency call cut after about forty minutes when he was taken into a building and passed out of signal." 

Reaching for water, he took a quick and quiet drink. 

"He was subjected to violence," he added. "We need to find him quickly."

Anthea tightened her grip upon her phone. 

Lestrade put the glass back down, switched to the next screen and carried on.

"Obviously our priority here is Mycroft's safety," he said. "He's previously done some minor consultancy work for the UK government. As a precaution, and as some of you might've spotted, we're being joined in this operation by the security services."

A few curious heads followed his glance towards the back of the room, taking in the mysterious figures gathered there in the gloom. 

Anthea maintained her gaze upon him.

"Try not to memorise any faces," he said, looking back at her.

There came a small scattering of amusement from his team. 

"They're under my authority," he added, "same as you lot. Just do what you do normally, and if they offer to take a task off your hands, give them it."

Anthea lifted her chin, addressing the darkened room. 

"We're here purely to assist your team, inspector," she said. "Your people should feel entirely confident in exercising their duties as usual."

Lestrade gave her a look of quiet gratitude.

"There you go," he said. "From the horse's mouth. Right, first things first: I need street teams co-ordinated in Barking, Peckham, Crouch End and the triangle between them. I need patrol cars across London to be notified and given photographs. I also need a team out to the scene of the fire to see if anything's been recovered which might help. It's a long shot but we're covering every base. The security services will be based in meeting room two and I'll be coming to you all for updates in an hour. Questions?"

 

*

 

The sound of approaching voices broke through Mycroft's thoughts. He tensed against his ties, his heart leaping in his chest at once. 

_ Perhaps -  _

The door opened. 

The light snapped on. Mycroft cringed, closing his eyes tight against the sudden painful blaze.

" - bring 'im 'ere," said a voice. He recognised it at once as the acne-riddled young man who'd so kindly arranged his captivity. "For you to see, right? So you'll know what to do with 'im. Thought that was best."

Every muscle in Mycroft's body tightened. He kept his eyes low, calming himself in silence as two sets of feet came to stand before him. 

One pair wore tracksuit bottoms and trainers - the other, heavy black boots.

Mycroft waited, gripping his bonds. 

_ You would tell me to be brave.  _

_ You've dealt with this man a hundred times. You would not be shaking. _

"Turn up for the fuckin' books, eh?" the young man said, with a hopeful laugh. "Lestrade gone queer! Posh queer, too. Fuckin' carrying on like he's a hard man, when really this is what he likes..."

"'Posh'?" inquired a much lower voice. Mycroft's pulse hitched.

"Posh as anything, boss. Wait 'til you hear 'im speak.  _ Proper  _ posh."

The heavy black boots stepped forwards. 

Mycroft watched, unbreathing, as Ian Starr knelt down. 

He lowered himself into Mycroft's eyeline - and Mycroft was alarmed to find himself looking at a man of surprisingly clean and decent appearance, blue-eyed with a broad neck and a well-kept black beard. He understood at once why Ian Starr was handed jail sentences so lenient. The genetic lottery had given him the symmetrical features and strong jaw often associated with honesty, with respectability and hard-working masculinity. He looked like the sort to describe himself as  _ a family man -  _ and be believed. He was neither spotty nor scarred nor unwashed; his clothes were clean and new, his gaze perfectly steady. 

Mycroft inhaled, staring into his eyes. 

_ You nearly burned a family alive,  _ he thought.  _ You battered the mother of your unborn child over the outcome of a football match. _

Ian Starr gazed back, his face a featureless wall of calm.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Mycroft hadn't had to use an alias in twenty years. It returned to him without a breath, the one part of his brain still fit to serve in the British security services. "My name is Edward Whitby."

"How d'you know Lestrade?"

_ Suggest a long-term relationship. More likely to ensure I am unharmed. Fear of retribution from Greg. _ "H-He is my partner."

Starr searched his expression, his eyes tightening at the edges. 

"How long's that been going on?" he said. "What happened to the wife?"

"They were divorced. Some years ago."

Starr processed this, unmoved. 

"And now there's you," he said.

_ God help me.  _ "Yes." 

"How come nobody's told me about this?"

Mycroft didn't reply, unsure of the question. Starr's frown deepened.

"Had people watching his new flat," he said. "Nobody's mentioned you."

"He usually stays with me." More details offered themselves to Mycroft's brain; he inhaled, giving them as calmly as he could. "My residence is closer to Scotland Yard. It's convenient for him."

Starr raised an eyebrow. 

"Right." He spent another moment simply looking at Mycroft, taking him in, then slowly straightened up. He turned to the young man hovering at his side in hope of approval. "And this was your call, was it?"

The young man grinned. "Knew you'd love it."

Ian Starr raised a hand. He pointed two fingers at Mycroft. "D'you know what this is?"

Mycroft tensed slowly, his gaze fixed on Starr's outstretched hand. The young man glanced his way with a smirk.

"Some posh queer?" he suggested.

Ian Starr's jaw visibly tightened. 

"This is called  _ 'kidnapping and false imprisonment'," _ he replied. As the smile slid from the younger man's face, he added, "of a police officer's boyfriend. Did you threaten him with a weapon?"

The young man said nothing, turning pale.

"Have you injured him?"

Not a word was said.

"D'you know what we call  _ that?" _ said Ian Starr. "We call that an  _ 'aggravating feature'.  _ And it adds several fucking years to the sentence."

The young man took a quick step backwards, now as grey as the concrete floor. 

"What else could've we done?" he said. "We - we couldn't've just - "

"You could've  _ not done this." _

"What? Just - just  _ killed _ him?"

"And left him," Starr said, raising his voice, "in a burning building. Where people do tend to die." 

The young man cowered, backing away. "Boss... boss, we - "

Starr moved. 

He punched the boy hard enough to send him lurching into the wall. Blood showered from his mouth in a spray. The sheer speed of it made Mycroft flinch. He watched, his heart pounding in distress as the young man slumped in a whimpering heap to the foot of the wall, cradling his jaw.

Starr inhaled. He straightened up, easing back under his own control, and wiped his sovereign rings upon his sleeve.

"You've now caused me a major problem," he told the boy, calmly, as he checked the rings for damage. "I'm trying to keep a low profile. I had tonight going like clockwork. And now I've got a fucking hostage."

Sobs emanated from the shaking young man on the floor. 

Starr, accustomed to the accent, understood more of it than Mycroft.

"Yeah?" he said. "You'd better  _ hope _ Lestrade won't realise he's here. Did you swap cars like I told you?"

Whimpering ascent was given.

"Anybody see you?"

"N-No," came the sob.

Starr's jaw set. 

"Get up," he breathed. "And don't ever kid yourself into thinking you're smart again. D'you hear me? You're not. You're a moron. You're a worthless little shit. And now I've got to make this go away."

As the young man struggled to his feet, Starr seized him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him up.

"Watch this door," he said, throwing the boy towards it. "Let nobody through it. Tell nobody else he's here."

Mycroft gripped the pipe to which he was bound. This might be his only opportunity; he took a risk.

"Mr Starr?" he said.

An awful silence closed its grip around the room. 

Starr returned to look at him, his expression dark. 

Mycroft held his gaze, trying to connect with those strange, intelligent eyes.

"There are people who would pay for my safe return," he said. He swallowed quietly. "They would be generous."

Starr didn't move. Nothing changed in his face. Only his eyes registered that anything had been said at all.

"How generous?" he said.

"Extremely." Mycroft held his nerve, speaking as he would to a respected colleague. "I work in the city and my family are not uncomfortable. They would appreciate every effort you took to ensure my well-being."

Starr was silent for nearly a minute - thinking, weighing and analysing.

His stare then shuttered.

"I'm not going back to prison," he said, and pushed the young man through the door. "Stand there. Don't let anyone in."

The door slammed.

Mycroft closed his eyes as the silence rang around him, bright and cold.

_ 'I'm not going back to prison'... _

_ What in god's name does that mean? _

 


	17. Efforts

In the circumstances, a decision to hand the inquiry to another senior investigating officer would have been entirely understandable.

As far as Anthea could tell, the possibility hadn't even crossed Lestrade's mind.

From the command centre now established in the largest of his division's incident rooms, she watched him dividing lines of inquiry between his officers with a hard-jawed resolve which never wavered. His people turned at once towards his approach; they provided him with updates before he could request them. He asked few questions, simply listened and processed, sometimes seeking a short clarification here and there - but they knew what he needed. They gave it unprompted. Though there were many opportunities for him to be afraid, he didn't appear to notice them.

It seemed to be a purposeful choice. Approaching this as any other inquiry seemed to be keeping him calm - there was an aim to be achieved and his focus on that aim was absolute. There was no time being allotted to stop and weigh the probabilities, make predictions, panic over the shortness of the odds. He had elected just to keep his team moving and let the war machine of Scotland Yard find the man he loved.

He would have made an admirable addition to the security services.

Mr Holmes couldn't have chosen a better mate.

Though it was still the very earliest hours of the morning, Scotland Yard was already alive with activity. Anthea had sent her own specialists into those legal grey areas that Lestrade's authority could not cover, hacking CCTV networks and fast-tracking search warrants on properties of known associates of Ian Starr. She then assigned the rest of her people to assist Scotland Yard officers individually with their inquiries.

Things were moving quickly. Working partnerships were forming; possibilities were being ruled out.

And Lestrade was like Mr Holmes. If someone didn't put coffee in front of him, regularly, he wouldn't realise how badly he needed it.

He barely noticed as Anthea laid a fresh cup down beside his keyboard, turning the handle towards him. He was engrossed in the e-mail which had just arrived on his screen.

"Hang on," he said, before she could step away. "We've got a problem..."

He twisted the screen around to show her; she bent down to read the text at speed.

"I've got our tech people trying to track Mycroft's phone," he said. "Usually we can follow mobile signals as they're moving between different masts, but they can't find it. It's like it's just not there. D'you know anything about this?"

Anthea nodded with reluctance.

"Mr Holmes's phone is cloaked," she explained, reaching inside her jacket for her own. "It's a security precaution... it makes it extremely difficult for unauthorised agencies to track, even official ones."

She unlocked her phone with a quick press of her index finger, flashing through applications.

"I'll take that off your hands, inspector. We have specialists who should be able to bypass the block. It might take some time."

"Do we _have_ time?"

"Yes," she said calmly, typing at speed. "If we do not, I shall create some."

"Right. How're your people doing with the CCTV?"

"Our area of acquired coverage is growing. We're filling the gaps at speed."

"What about your search teams?"

"The timing is unfortunate," she said. "These kind of discrete checks upon targets are far easier in daylight - but my people are proceeding through the list of known associates you supplied, and I've had no notification of suspicious activity yet."

Lestrade reached up to rub his right temple, taking a slow breath.

"I need this to move faster," he muttered. "I need a breakthrough. We're getting nowhere."

"Inspector?"

"We've already been trying to find Ian Starr for weeks," he said. "He moves. He moves quickly. We've not been moving quickly enough to keep up with him so far. The second we hear where he is, he's gone... and I'm now... I don't know. Concerned."

"With a hostage," Anthea reminded him, "he's more likely to be forced to hold a single location."

Lestrade raked his hands into his hair. "Or rid himself of the burden," he said. "If he realises Mycroft is going to bring MI5 down upon him."

"Mr Holmes won't allow him to realise that. He'll provide a false identity and hold it, even if subjected to pressure."

"Part of me almost thinks - Christ - "

"Go on."

"Part of me thinks he'd be _better_ telling them? If they realise Mycroft's a big deal, if they know people'll be searching for him, Ian might think twice... might try and be reasonable. If he thinks Mycroft's just... just mine, he'll..."

He covered his face.

"J-Jesus," he breathed. "We need to move faster. I don't know where this is going. I know I don't like it."

Anthea glanced at the open door of his office. She moved away from his desk, walked over to it and closed it with a stroke of her fingers, as if they merely needed to discuss something private.

She then returned, settled in the chair before his desk, and said,

"I appreciate there are certain thoughts you won't wish to share. I know you've also been awake for some time, and that your emotional attachment to Mr Holmes has been difficult to put aside."

Lestrade kept his hands over his eyes. His shoulders stiffened as he breathed in. "You don't understand," he said. "This is _my_ fault. If something worse happens, that'll be my fault too."

Anthea processed this, forming a response calmly in her mind.

"Mr Holmes's political status means this eventuality was far more likely with your roles reversed," she said. "I've conducted more risk assessments on the subject than I care to tell you about, inspector. In those circumstances - if you'd been taken unlawfully by a foreign agency, and Mr Holmes was now working to secure your release - would it cross your mind that it was in any way 'his fault'?"

His steadying breath was her answer.

"Your security will be reviewed," she added, "when this situation is over, to ensure no repeat of it."

Lestrade said nothing for a moment more, pushing his fingers back through his hair. "He'll never leave my sight again when this is over," he muttered. He sat up and reached at last for his coffee. _"I'll_ be his bloody security."

 _An engagement within two years,_ Anthea thought. _An autumn wedding._

_A long, uninterrupted honeymoon._

She watched him take a drink, both hands wrapped around the mug.

As he put it down, he said,

"My home burned down today." Anthea's heart twisted. "I don't care one bit."

A brisk knock on the door lifted both their heads. Anthea turned to find one of her graduate analysts entering the room, his face set in quiet triumph.

"Ma'am? CCTV. We have them."

Lestrade was out of his chair in an instant. "Show me."

 

*

 

They could not have hoped for better. A convenience shop close to the flat had captured the arrival of a dark blue Vauxhall Astra just before the fire, carrying three passengers. A few minutes later, the car passed the same camera again - this time carrying four.

Though the footage was blurry, the white of Mr Holmes's shirt stood out in the darkness. It was clearly him.

"We have the same car turning off at the Royal Mail delivery office," Ravi said, clicking quickly through CCTV footage, "here on Movers Lane, a minute later." The image stretched across the screen. It buffered for a second, processing, then sharpened.

The number plate appeared in perfect clarity.

Lestrade grasped the young man by the shoulder.

"Good," he said, gripping hard. "Brilliant. _Well done."_ He turned and strode across the incident room, shouting. "Who's on ANPR? We've got a plate! I need people on traffic cameras, now!"

Anthea leant low to her analyst. "Excellent work, Ravi."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"Kindly assist Inspector Lestrade's team in tracking the car."

"Yes, ma'am." He got up from his chair with a squeak and hurried after Lestrade at once.

Anthea gazed at the image left on his screen, laying her hands on the back of his vacated chair.

She gripped, quietly.

_Progress._

 

*

 

Phases of cold, numbing lucidity now divided the panic into stages. Mycroft noted their regular recurrence and began to utilise them, finding their duration increased as the mental occupation of his mind brought him calm.

He started to approach the situation as if it were a training exercise, compiling ideas and possibilities, analysing chances of success. Soon, he'd isolated a number of chances that should be taken immediately if they occurred. With each passing hour, the consequences of a failed escape attempt grew less daunting in comparison to the need to make one.

He waited in the silence, cycling over and over between methodical planning, irrepressible fear, and concern over the increasing pain beneath his ribs. The night would be passing; there had been no sign of rescue. Memories of Greg had become as liable to trigger grief and distress as comfort.

Though rescue was beyond his control, he needed to be ready for those eventualities he might be able to govern.

The one which finally came to pass he'd considered at some length, for it would make use of familiar skills in an unfamiliar environment. As he heard the door to his makeshift cell open, and slouching footsteps shuffled inside, Mycroft's plan booted in his mind with the speed of an opened application. He lifted his chin, waiting for the glance to come around the corner.

As soon as it did, he spoke.

"Wait."

The boy blinked in alarm, startled to find Mycroft looking at him. There was still dried blood around his mouth and nose; he hadn't dared leave his post even to wash.

"I need to speak with you," Mycroft said, willing his heart to slow down.

A scowl arose at once.

"Shut the fuck up," the boy grunted. "We got nothin' to speak about. And you're not s'posed to talk."

"I imagine Ian Starr is used to people doing what they're supposed to," Mycroft said. "It probably doesn't cross his mind they could look after their own interests instead."

The boy's eyes contracted around the edges. He said nothing, guarded, visibly trying to work out what was happening here.

"What is your name?" Mycroft asked him, tightening his grip upon the pipe.

The boy's expression shifted.

"Jackson," he muttered.

"Jackson, you work for an incredibly stupid man. I can see why you do - he's useful to you, from time-to-time - but sometimes he misses what's right in front of him. I think you understand me."

Jackson scowled harder, unmoved. "What the fuck d'you want?"

Mycroft held the boy's suspicious glare.

"I want to leave here," he said, his heart pounding. "I want to walk quietly through a back exit before the trouble starts. You know what's coming, of course. Ian Starr hasn't realised, but I imagine you have."

"Have I?"

"The longer I stay here, Jackson, the more likely the police are to arrive."

Jackson snorted. "And?"

"And it will either end in violence or in arrests. Ian will be quick to tell the police that _you_ took me. He'll let you sit out his sentence for him. We both heard him, Jackson, didn't we? _'I'm not going back to prison'._ He means that someone else will go in his place. He means it will be you."

The young man said nothing, staring at him, thinking quickly.

"Instead," Mycroft said, gently levelling his voice, "I could be useful to you. Far more useful than Ian ever has been."

Jackson gave him an ugly smirk.

"Yeah?" he jeered. "What's useful about you, tied to a pipe? Fuck off."

"I have money. Plenty of it. Within a few short hours, you could have plenty of it too."

The boy said nothing, the smirk fading from his mouth.

Mycroft gripped the pipe and went on. "Here is what would happen," he said, "if you agree. You would untie me - "

"Fuck off! Ian'll batter me."

"He won't _ever have the chance,_ Jackson. You and I will be out of a back exit before anyone sees us. We'll walk a short distance away and I will call DI Lestrade. When he arrives, I'll explain who you are and that you helped me to escape. Ian will be in police custody within an hour, where he can no longer reach you - and for assisting me, you can name a figure."

Jackson glanced at the door. Mycroft's heart clenched.

 _"Any figure,_ Jackson," he said. "I will empty my bank account to leave here alive."

The boy flushed, unsettled. "Any figure?"

"Name it," Mycroft said. "Name it now. It will be in your hands by the end of the day."

"Yeah?" Jackson's mouth twitched. "What if I tell you I ain't doin' it for less than ten grand?"

Uncomfortable guilt crawled behind Mycroft's ribs. The unfathomable upper limits of wealth for this young man capped at the price he'd seen some colleagues spend on a couch.

"Then I will give you thirty thousand," he said. He watched the boy struggle to process it, glancing wildly again towards the door. "Jackson, you will earn more money in five minutes than most people earn in a year. This chance won't come again in your life."

"F-Fuck off," the boy breathed. "I can't trust you. You'll tell Lestrade it was me what took you from his flat, won't you? I know you will. He'll fuckin' throw me into prison along with Ian."

"Then wait until Lestrade gets here," Mycroft said, "and you will take Ian's place in prison for him! Do you think he'll do the decent thing to you? No. You'll take the blame for both arson and for kidnapping, Jackson - or you will untie me, _quickly,_ take me to the exit, and make the best decision of your life."

The boy had turned grey; he looked almost panicked with indecision.

"This is your one chance to become the winner," Mycroft said. "Ian intends to use you as armour. He thinks you'll take a bullet for him. I think you're too intelligent for that."

Jackson's face twisted with distress. It was too much.

"Piss off," he spat. "You prob'ly don't even have the money. I ain't goin' to prison either."

Before Mycroft could stop him, he turned on his heel. The light snapped out as he slapped the switch. With an angry bang of the door, he was gone.

Mycroft closed his eyes against the sudden darkness.

He shifted, inhaling as a fresh spike of pain twisted through his abdomen. He'd hoped to find comfort in at least having tried; there was none.

Quiet prickles of panic began the next stage of the cycle.

 _Please,_ he begged, as the fear consumed him. _Please let your efforts be more successful than mine._

 

*

 

"Hidden in a residential estate," Sally's voice said over speakerphone, crackling in the stiff four AM breeze. "Definitely the right car. Got it taped off and we're waiting for SOCOs."

It should feel like progress. Greg knew it should. Finding the car brought them a step closer to finding Mycroft - but something felt off.

As soon as traffic had traced the car south of the Thames, all his swirling instincts had locked themselves into Peckham like claws. Peckham was Ian's territory. It was his heartland. A spontaneous kidnapping meant they wouldn't have had a secure place ready in which to hold Mycroft. They'd have been forced to take him somewhere familiar they could improvise - and that meant Peckham. Greg had nearly scrambled the street teams.

Now the car had turned up in New Charlton, and all the evidence said Mycroft would be there too.

Greg hadn't known Ian had any connection to New Charlton. It was a quiet place; there wasn't much trade to be found there for a ganglord.

As he stared down at his desk phone, trying to reassess the situation at speed, he found himself keenly aware of Anthea standing at his side. He could feel her reading him, weighing his reaction.

"Sal, is there... anything _obvious_ around?" he asked, lost. "Any indication where they've taken him?"

Sally made an uneasy noise.

"Plenty of residences," she said. "I mean... he could be in any one of them, to be honest. Unlikely they'd park right outside the door, but they can't have walked him far."

_Christ, this doesn't feel right._

Greg laced his hands over the back of his neck, taking a moment just to think. There wasn't much they could do except pursue this new lead, see what came of it - no matter how misplaced it felt.

"Right," he said, inhaling. "Okay. Let's get a search underway. Close off the estate. Nobody leaves before we've spoken to them. The second that lights start coming on, get knocking on doors and find out who owns that car. Any signs of CCTV?"

"Sorry, boss. We might be struggling. Fairly ordinary residential estate, so there's not a lot of obvious security around. I'll send people up to the main road if you want - look for cameras?"

"Yep. Fine. Let's do that." Greg reached for the button to end the call. "Keep me posted," he said.

The line cut off.

"What concerns you?" Anthea asked at once.

Greg sat back in his chair; the lumbar support gave a slow creak beneath him.

"Surprised," he murmured. "That's all... New Charlton."

"You were expecting somewhere else?"

"Mnh." Greg reached for his half-finished coffee. Every time he'd finished one, a new one had appeared on his desk as if by magic. "Then again," he added, holding in a sigh, "if I could predict Ian Starr's behaviour with any accuracy, we'd have tracked him down weeks ago now..."

"Does he have associates in New Charlton?" Anthea asked. "Property?"

Greg drank a mouthful of coffee, his eyes closing.

"Not as far as I knew." His voice echoed slightly in the mug, muffled. "Whenever he's fresh out of prison, he sticks to his own hunting grounds for a while... hangs close to Peckham, takes time to reassert himself there... then he starts moving outwards. But the problem with Ian is that he's got a brain. S'why he's so bloody dangerous. He learns. He went to the trouble of risking a charge for common assault in Crouch End, just to build himself an alibi for arson."

He shook his head, put the mug down and reached across to refresh his e-mails.

"Maybe he _does_ have a base in New Charlton," he said, vaguely. "Some ordinary estate, some house... explains why we've spent weeks trying to find him."

Anthea made a non-committal noise. "But such a thing would contradict your instincts," she said.

Greg watched the mailbox reload, biting the inside of his cheek. Nothing new appeared.

"So much for my instincts."

"I'm not sure they should be so swiftly put aside, inspector."

"Yeah?" Greg said, turning in his chair to raise an eyebrow at her. "We'll swiftly put aside the evidence instead, shall we? The car's been found in New Charlton. That means Mycroft's in New Charlton. Anything else is just a hunch."

She reached for his empty mug without comment, taking it carefully by the rim with her manicured fingertips.

"He's in one of those houses," Greg went on, wishing she believed him. It would make it so much easier to believe himself. "This is a rushed job. And it doesn't matter how clever Ian Starr is. Ian didn't expect to have a hostage, did he? Mycroft's in New Charlton."

"When did you last eat?" she asked.

Greg frowned at her. "Last night," he said. _Jesus, my home-cooked meal. That was only last night._

"I'll bring you what I can for breakfast," she said. "I may be a few minutes."

She left his office holding his coffee mug, nudging the door shut with a bump of her hip as she passed.

Greg watched her go between the blinds.

The silence which gathered in her wake was unnerving.

He glanced at his inbox, unsurprised to find no notice of further developments. There wouldn't be for a while now. All their hopes rested with Sally's team; she'd be doing everything she could.

Greg refreshed his inbox just in case, pressing his tongue into his cheek.

_Maybe I should get myself out to New Charlton. Lead from the front._

_No point sitting here, thinking._

As he glanced at his coat, hanging on the back of the door, the strange conviction arose once more that there would be nothing to find in New Charlton - just baffled and sleepy residents, saying they'd not heard anything in the night, never seen that car before.

Exhaling, Greg placed his head into his hands.

_Shit._

He should have passed this onto another SIO. He should have handed it to someone capable, well-rested and not scared out of their head.

_Shit. Shit._

Last night, when it all began, he'd been convinced no-one else could handle this. He'd no sooner have let someone else lead the search for Mycroft than he'd have suddenly grown a pair of wings and flown away. The thought of sitting in a hotel room on his own, waiting for news as someone else handled the operation, had nearly killed him.

Now dawn was on its way. Mycroft was still missing; all Greg's instincts were scrambled. Ian Starr was leading them on the same wild goose chase he always had, only this time with Greg's heart grasped in one hand.

_Christ - if -_

He couldn't bear it.

The same day he discovered what he meant to Mycroft, he might lose him. He couldn't cope with the thought of Mycroft being mistreated in this moment, subjected to violence. They'd refused to let Greg hear the last few minutes of the 999 call. They'd told him Mycroft had resisted and been subdued, but given no details.

_Why did you fight them, gorgeous? What scared you enough to try that?_

_Peckham thugs._

_But still you tried._

Ian Starr didn't like police officers. He didn't like people who opposed him. Like most violent men of his background, he didn't care for gay people either. Greg was all three. Tonight Ian had burned his home and everything in it to the ground, just to remind Greg he hadn't forgotten.

_Jesus. God._

_Tell him, sweetheart._

_Please. Tell him you're a big deal. Tell him every MI5 agent in London will be looking for you. Don't play it safe. Don't pretend you're nothing. If he thinks you're nothing..._

_Christ help me -_

Greg drove his hands backwards into his hair, inhaling hard.

_Why the fuck New Charlton - there's nothing in New Charlton -_

_Fuck, you need me - you need me and I can't find you -_

He couldn't sit here any longer. He'd walk the streets of New Charlton until something told him to go elsewhere. Wherever Mycroft was, they wouldn't find him here in this office.

Greg got up from his desk, pulled on his coat and dropped his phone into the pocket. He wouldn't need anything else.

As he opened his door, he found Anthea striding back along the corridor towards him. There was no sign of coffee or breakfast. Instead she had her phone held to her ear.

She reached him, took his arm without a word and pulled him along with her.

"What is it?" he said.

Anthea ignored him, still listening to the phone. "Yes," she said, agitated. "Immediately. Put it through to Ravi's laptop."

As they hurried through the division together, she hung up and quickened her pace.

"What is it?" Greg repeated in concern.

"Mr Holmes's mobile phone. We've been able to trace its last signal."

"Jesus - where?"

"The area's still very broad, but I'm having a map reference sent through. I need you to identify anywhere nearby that - "

_"Where, Anthea?"_

Her eyes flashed. "Peckham."

Ravi looked up from his desk as they approached.

"Ma'am," he said quickly, "I'm getting a request to - "

"Load it." Anthea pulled Greg over. "Show us the map."

The young man complied, his fingers rattling across the keyboard at speed. Greg watched with a pounding heart as a vast map of London appeared upon the laptop screen. It swept south-east as it zoomed in, sinking closer and closer to the earth.

"So - this is where we last got a signal?" Greg said, glancing sideways at Anthea. "This is where he is?"

Her mouth tightened. "This is the broad geographic area where his mobile phone was last able to connect to the system."

Greg tried not to consider the immediate problems: that Mycroft's phone might have been separated from him; that a broad area would cover hundreds of buildings; that Mycroft might have been moved again, without his mobile phone, in the time since the signal.

As the map finally locked into place, Greg felt his breath thin.

"These are the three base stations used to triangulate his location," Ravi said, pointing out three white glowing dots upon the screen. "He's likely to be somewhere within them... I'm sorry, it's fairly huge..."

Greg leant down to see more closely, scanning the area with narrowed eyes. "Can you make it bigger for me, mate?"

With a few quick taps, the map expanded to fill the screen.

"Is this somewhere familiar?" Anthea asked, watching him closely.

Greg inhaled.

It was.

"There's not much in that part of Peckham," he muttered. "Old warehouses. Buildings waiting to be scrapped... council's wanting to demolish it all for new flats." He paused, his gaze lingering on one building in particular. "Most of them are uninhabitable..."

Anthea raised an eyebrow. "Most of them?"

"We had a big drugs raid here," Greg said. "Couple of years ago."

"A drugs raid?"

"Mm. Back when Ian Starr was inside." He pointed out the building on the screen. "Old electricity station. Another gang was using it for hydroponics - two hundred grand's worth of cannabis in there. My division got roped in to help sort out the evidence. Massive operation."

Anthea's eyes widened. "Those premises were cleared out afterwards, I assume."

"Been empty ever since." Greg bit into the side of his cheek, holding her gaze. "This is guesswork," he warned. "It's all instinct."

"I'm willing to trust your instincts, inspector."

Greg inhaled, his pulse speeding. _God almighty. Mycroft trusts you. I'll trust your trust._ "This is it, then. Here's my instincts."

"Do I understand you have knowledge of the building's layout?" Anthea asked.

Greg frowned, searching her face. "I've been there."

"Would you still be able to find your way around it?"

"I think so. Why?"

"Because a full-frontal raid may be unwise," she said. "I imagine such a building will be easy to fortify. If we screech up outside with sirens and guns, a siege could develop and they might choose to harm Mr Holmes."

Greg drove the possibility out of his mind. He steadied himself with a breath.

"What're you suggesting?" he said.

 

*

 

The creak of the door opened Mycroft's eyes. He lifted them from the floor, hoping for Jackson - a second chance to convince the boy.

The reappearance of Ian Starr dropped his stomach. He braced, watching without a sound as Ian entered the room. There was another man with him - a strange, hollow-cheeked and dark-eyed individual for whom Ian held the door, tall and mutely-dressed in a mixture of ex-military clothing and civilian wear.

Ian brought the man to stand in front of Mycroft. He folded his arms across his chest, saying nothing as he waited.

The man regarded him for some time. His hands stayed deep in the pockets of his coat, his expression blank. He seemed to be analysing something.

At last, with a glance at Ian Starr, the man asked, "Does Lestrade know?"

Ian Starr shook his head. "No sign of anything. Looks like they thought he was in the fire."

The man nodded, processing this distantly. He sniffed.

"Let's talk price," he said.

As quietly as they'd come, they left. The door shut behind them.

Mycroft realised he wasn't breathing.

 


	18. Sunshine

_'No sign of anything.'_

_'Looks like they thought he was in the fire.'_

Somewhere, in this moment, Greg would be grieving. He would be tortured by the thought of Mycroft's final minutes of life, trapped by fire and trying to escape. There would be specialists with him. Family. These were the first few hours of Greg Lestrade's new life, where the man who loved him had died in a fire. He'd lost his home. He'd be mourning everything he had.

Mycroft was mourning, too.

It would be daylight outside this room. The world would be carrying on without him - the city, the commute, the morning papers; a terrible fire in Dagenham; among the fatalities, an unnamed government clerk.

_Does it matter?_

Panic and distress screamed at each other in the wreckage of his mind.

_You will die anyway, by fire or other means. Last night or soon, it doesn't matter. You will be dead._

He couldn't stop thinking of that unassuming man in ex-military combats; those dark eyes taking Mycroft in, considering; _'Does Lestrade know?';_ Ian Starr's calm, business-like response.

_'Let's talk price.'_

It didn't matter if Greg grieved him in flames. Burnt alive or a shallow grave somewhere, it didn't matter.

He'd started almost to wish it had been the flames. It would all be over then. His ashes would be mixed with the ashes of all the rest of Greg's life, and there would no worse to come. He wouldn't have to feel this panic any longer, waiting for the door to open. He wouldn't have to fear the decisions being made in this very moment.

He kept thinking of Greg grieving, Anthea grieving. They didn't know he was still alive. They could still find him if they looked. He might still be alright.

_But why would they keep looking?_

_You are dead._

_And even if they're wrong for the moment, they will soon be right._

These might be the last few minutes of his life.

Mycroft's throat tightened, afraid.

He soothed himself to breathe, letting the heat in his eyes break. _If I am allowed to cry at any time, it is now._ There was a painful comfort in it: his tears, his weakness. He hadn't cried since he was a boy - not since Sherlock's birth, the days and weeks shortly after, when Mycroft had realised he'd only ever been a half shade of a child. A substitute.

It had felt so very pointless to cry - but comfortingly so.

He wanted pointless comfort in these minutes, too.

It was distressing not to be able to dry the tears. The bands around his wrists bit as cruelly into his skin as ever; even tiny movements now seemed to tighten them.

With quiet insistence Mycroft drew his focus away from the pain, up to his chest and to the feeling of each breath as he took them.

 _Sherlock will be glad of an end to my meddling._ To love his younger brother all the same, to care for him even when it was fiercely unwanted, had been a statement from Mycroft to himself. _I am not affected by my petty suspicions of favouritism._ He'd been proud. It was the sort of thing an excellent older brother would have thought. The real joke of it all came with Sherlock's unconcealed resentment of their mother's oppressive love. Her precious real child had fled for the horizon as soon as it appeared. It was Mycroft who'd kept visiting every Sunday without fail - Mycroft who'd made arrangements as she aged, Mycroft who'd never wavered in her care. In the private nursing home where she'd spent her final weeks in this world, she'd kept a single photograph frame by her bed. The photograph within it was not of Mycroft.

That was years ago now though.

Gazing into the darkness, Mycroft drew a shaking breath.

_Cruel._

He'd never let himself think it before - but he could hardly hurt his mother now.

_Cruel. To - mistreat._

_Unnecessary._

Sherlock, too. He let his brother's face rise before him in his mind; those cold and disinterested eyes, the snide little remarks about his weight. Sherlock would not mourn him for a moment. He might have been informed already. He was next of kin.

He probably hadn't glanced up from his chemistry set.

_Preserved your life countless times. Bail money. Deposits on flats you let fall into squalor. Bribes to law enforcement to sustain your ill-appreciated freedom._

_And never a word to her about it all. Never one word. Her precious shining star. Her Sherlock._

_Cruel._

When it came to the cruelties of Mycroft's life, memories were plentiful. When it came to kindnesses, memories were few.

Most had their source in one man.

_Those eyes._

Mycroft's chest constricted as he cried, facing the realisation he would never see them again. Those soft brown eyes. They thought he was dead. _One glance. One final glance. What I'd give._ One moment in the window at Cliveden together, sharing a cigarette and watching the last of the day's light spill across the shining river; one breath beneath the branches of an oak tree, kissing as if the whole world could wait.

 _'Help each other out,'_ Greg had said.

_'We could be friends.'_

Tears burned in Mycroft's eyes. He'd never said the words. He wished he had, just once. _I love you, darling;_ breathed it against Greg's forehead. _I love you so very much. You were my brightest joy._ No-one in this world had ever made him feel cherished. Greg had. He'd made Mycroft feel desirable and interesting and beautiful. They'd had only weeks together.

They'd been the happiest weeks.

_'Sunshine'._

_As if I am anyone's sunshine - as if I am anyone's light -_

Mycroft twisted his arms as he shook, pulling the teeth of the ties tight into his skin. He needed the pain to breathe. He needed it to calm down.

_I was your sunshine. I was your light._

_Not for long, b_ _ut I was._

It made it so much harder to die. Greg would be grieving. Greg would be alone. They could have spent happy years together; instead Greg would walk those years by himself, followed only by Mycroft's shadow. Those fragile threads they'd gathered around each other were about to be snapped, severed for good. Greg thought they were already cut.

Shaking in silence, Mycroft tried to guide his thoughts. He couldn't waste this time.

_Happy years out of reach._

_Happy minutes instead._

He would spend these minutes how he and Greg would have spent decades. He had a lifetime's joy to experience - and perhaps only moments to do it.

 _Dating. Dinner together._ Those soft brown eyes by candlelight, crinkling at their edges as Greg smiled. Weekends together. Long weekends. If Mycroft's professional obligations had put themselves in the way, they would have been jettisoned without a thought. This country had always needed him far more than he needed it. Every man, woman and child in Britain could wait with their needs behind Greg.

In time, a weekend at Cliveden and a walk through sunlit woods. An oak tree where time stood still, sheltering them within its bounds.

A ring.

And then a single perfect day - just the two of them, a registrar and a witness. Anthea. She would have cried; she would have been happy.

A hand to hold, always. A husband. A family. Dogs. Sundays, walking through woods hand-in-hand. Fill Greg's life with comforts he never had; grow human and warm in the light of Greg's love.

Grow old wrapped in arms that had been worth a lifetime's wait.

Greg would have wanted for nothing.

Not one thing.

Instead -

_And I cannot be there to comfort you._

_You will need me and I won't be there._

Mycroft wrenched against his ties. _I do not want to die._ Tears blurred the darkness into ghosts of light and shade, the rage and regret choking him. The pain in his wrists wasn't sharp enough to dull them. They wouldn't ease.

_I love you. I love you._

_How I would have loved you._

Wild with grief, the bang of the door seemed at first to be in his imagination. The sudden blaze of the lights made it real. Voices filled the room.

" - but - for real, though?"

"Car's been found. Pigs are going door-to-door."

" - s-so?"

"So they know too much already, don't they? Now we tidy up your mess before they arrive."

Mycroft shut his eyes. He didn't want to see. He let every other thought burn out of his head except for one: Greg. Greg's eyes, Greg's face. His hands.

Someone came close, heaving him forwards to access his wrists.

"W-Why me?" Jackson's voice asked as the ties were cut. "Why - why do I have to come too?"

"Ian says you took him," the contract killer said. "You caused the problem. Now you can help me solve the problem."

Greg. Greg's smile. The ease with which he laughed. Greg's gentle kiss, his fingertips around Mycroft's jaw.

Heavier hands closed around Mycroft's shoulders.

He flinched, bracing - but the hands simply dragged him to his feet. His arms were forced behind his back and gripped; another arm slung across his chest from behind.

"No sudden moves," said the voice in his ear. "Right?"

A cold metal edge pressed flat to the front of his throat.

"We're taking a little walk. Then a little drive. You're coming nice and quiet."

Mycroft kept his eyes shut as he was forced to move. _Holmes-Lestrade. A honeymoon. Anywhere you wished. A hotel, champagne. A wedding night. I love you._ It didn't matter where they took him to die. He would keep his eyes closed; if he didn't see where it was, it didn't matter. He would die in his own mind, in Greg's arms, in the suite at Cliveden where they'd fallen in love. He could still feel the warm weight of the covers. He could still see Greg's eyes, gently gazing into his own, watching him from the other pillow with that quiet and loving smile.

Corridors were passing; Mycroft didn't see them. He simply walked and let the man move him, stroking Greg's cheek in his mind, brushing back his hair. _I love you, darling._

He hoped Anthea found Greg. He hoped she looked after him.

_It's alright, sweetheart. I wasn't afraid. You were there._

"L-Listen - just - "

Jackson's voice scattered across the vision of Greg.

"He's got money," the boy said. "He's told me. He's loaded. Why's Ian paying you to - i-instead he could - "

"Not your decision," the other man muttered. "Besides. Cleaner this way."

Mycroft shut his eyes tighter, desperate for them to stop speaking. Greg was fading from his mind. He wanted to be alone together. In his thoughts he pushed close to Greg, kissed him more desperately, stroked through his hair and felt its texture between his fingers. _My darling, mine, my own -_

"Just - look, he's _seriously loaded,"_ Jackson said. "He offered me _thirty grand._ Okay? He wasn't fuckin' kidding. We could split it. The two of us. That's more than Ian's given you, right?"

They turned a corner.

As they came to a sudden stop, Mycroft's heart lurched - and a voice spoke from several metres in front of him.

"Stay right where you are."

Mycroft's eyes flew open.

The corridor ahead was blocked in its entirety by a V-formation of covert MI5 operatives, nine of them, suited in coal-black body armour. The two wings of the formation were training firearms this way.

At their head, deathly calm, stood Greg.

 

*

 

The noise Mycroft made cracked Greg's heart in two. He kept it off his face, surveying the situation with a quick glance. There were two of them - a horrified-looking kid with acne and a taller black-eyed man in ex-military clothing.

The sight of the knife at Mycroft's throat sent a thrill of horror through Greg's veins.

_Holy fuck._

_Just in time._

He steadied himself, training his gaze on the guy holding Mycroft.

"Drop the knife," he said, "or we'll shoot."

The man didn't move. His gaze pierced into Greg, black as death.

"Drop the guns," he returned, "or I'll cut his throat."

Greg took this onboard without reaction. "Nine of us, mate," he said. "One of you. Do the maths, drop the knife and let him go."

The man licked his lips.

"He's got one throat." He tensed suddenly. Mycroft flinched, his eyes snapping shut as the blade threatened to dig in. _"Drop the guns."_

Greg held up a hand, ignoring the hammering of his heart.

"Easy," he murmured. "Right? This can end just fine for all of us. You let him go, he comes over here, and the two of you walk away. Sorted."

The teenager in the back made a noise of stifled panic.

"Let 'im go." His voice broke as he pleaded. "F-Fuck. _Let 'im go._ This ain't nothin' to do with us."

The man didn't move. He kept the knife just as it was, pressed against Mycroft's throat.

Mycroft started to shake.

His eyes opened a little, gazing at Greg in desperation.

Greg looked gently back into them. _S'alright, sunshine. Not leaving without you._

He watched Mycroft swallow.

"Ian not with you?" he asked, as calmly as if they'd all bumped into each other at the pub.

The man with the knife took a moment to answer. "Who's Ian?"

Greg gave him a stiff smile. "Realised we were on the way, did he? Long gone?"

"I don't know any Ian."

"Jackson," Mycroft said. The nervous kid at the back reacted to the name; Greg watched, holding in his frown. "I told you."

The boy flashed a wild look towards Greg.

"I-I don't know what's goin' on neither," he tried. "I'm just - I - I ain't involved in this." He hesitated, paling. His hands tightened at his sides. "You're Lestrade."

The man with the knife barked at the boy without looking. "Shut your damn mouth, Jackson."

Greg kept his eyes on Mycroft, trying to read what he was being told. Mycroft seemed to be breathing again, shallow and slow; he watched Greg closely in return.

"If you help me," he said, "Greg will let you leave. You will be alright. You won't be harmed."

The man holding him pulled a face. "They can drop the fucking guns first," he said. "Then I'll think about it."

As Greg realised who Mycroft was actually addressing, his pulse hitched.

He kept his eyes firmly on the man with the knife.

"We're gonna have to break this somehow," he said.

The man said nothing, watching him.

"I don't want bloodshed," Greg went on. "Don't want anybody's blood shed. So let's lose that knife."

"Then _drop the guns,"_ the man snarled, "and _back away._ I'm not moving a muscle until you're halfway down that corridor and the guns are on the floor. D'you get me?"

In Greg's peripheral vision, he saw Jackson take a first silent step. His heart tightened.

"I get you," he said, calmly. "And you know what? If that's what it takes, then that's what it takes. Nobody needs to get hurt."

He inclined his head over his shoulder.

"Guys? Do as he says."

He felt the squad behind him slowly start to lower their weapons.

The man with the blade watched them do it, visibly surprised. He relaxed a little. His grip on the knife eased.

Behind him, Jackson lunged.

He lashed both arms around the man's neck and wrenched him backwards, grabbing for the knife. The three men lurched as one. They began to fall.

The knife flashed and shots rang out.

All three of them dropped.

Greg moved before they even hit the ground. He ran for Mycroft without a thought, ignoring the shouts of the operatives behind him. As he reached them, his heart saw the blood before his eyes did and panic screamed through his system. He grabbed for Mycroft, hauling him up from the floor.

Mycroft's weight lolled loose against his shoulder.

_No -_

_No, you -_

Greg locked his arms around Mycroft's chest. He wasn't moving.

_No - no, no -_

He pulled Mycroft closer, trying to find his pulse. The other two were flung across the ground like fallen puppets. They weren't moving either.

_Please no - please, god, no -_

Greg began to plead in panic, gasping against Mycroft's cheek.

"No, please - please be - "

The arms around his shoulders suddenly drew tight.

Fingers drove through his hair.

"G-Greg - "

Greg's heart heaved into his throat. _"Fuck - "_

Mycroft sobbed, clinging to him. _"Greg - "_

Greg reached down, wrapping an arm beneath Mycroft's legs. He didn't care if they'd hit one or both of Ian's boys. He didn't care about anything else in this world. He lifted Mycroft up without a breath, hefted him against his chest and carried him away along the corridor. Some of the operatives followed; others stayed. Greg didn't care.

Mycroft held onto him, shaking. His face buried against Greg's shoulder.

"I've got you," Greg murmured as they moved. He could hear one of the operatives speaking into a radio at speed behind him. "I've got you, darlin'. It's all over and I've got you. We're getting the hell out of here."

Mycroft curled into his chest.

"I l-love you," he wept. "Oh, god - _I love you - "_

_Jesus. Fuck._

"I love you, too. I love you so much. Anthea's right outside with the others. We'll get you to hospital, alright? Everything's gonna be fine."

"The boy - J-Jackson - did they - "

Greg felt his stomach grip. "Let's concentrate on you, sunshine. We'll figure out the rest later."

As they reached the back entrance through which they'd slipped five minutes ago, Greg tightened his hold on Mycroft. He booted the door open with his foot, caught its recoil against the other shoulder and carried Mycroft out into bright white sun.

The security services were waiting.

 

*

 

As a swarm of people descended, Mycroft shrank in distress against Greg's chest. He couldn't bear it. Someone intervened to try and take him from Greg's arms. Mycroft clung on, tensing; Greg shouted the man back with almost dog-like ferocity and the space around them cleared.

Greg's arms tightened. He carried Mycroft on through the noise.

Her voice came from nowhere, perfectly calm.

"Here," she said. "This one. The hospital are expecting us."

Mycroft heard the clunk of an opening car door.

Greg lowered him gently into the seat.

"That's it, darlin'. Sit there. M'coming too, don't worry." The door slammed behind them. Mycroft found himself suddenly breathing, his heart suddenly beating, suddenly alive. He curled into Greg's lap to cry like a child, unable to do anything else. Greg's arms wrapped around him. "Shhh, sunshine... m'right here. We'll get you to London Bridge, get those wrists looked at. M'not gonna let you go, I promise. Not for a second. Shhh..."

Another door slammed. _Anthea. The passenger seat._ They set off.

As they drove Mycroft kept his face turned against Greg's chest, not wanting to see this place as he left it - not wanting any memory of this moment but Greg.

 

*

 

Passing through the gates of London Bridge Hospital, the quiet chime of Anthea's phone sounded within the car.

Greg paused in murmuring to Mycroft, lifting his head from his lover's temple. He'd stroked Mycroft's hair every second of the journey; he'd not stopped soothing him all the way here.

He watched in the rear view mirror as Anthea read the text message she'd just received. Her shoulders expanded silently.

She glanced up, meeting Greg's gaze.

"We have Ian Starr," she murmured. "Peckham Rye rail station, attempting to board a train. Sergeant Donovan made the arrest."

Greg took this in.

He lowered his head, pressing his nose to Mycroft's forehead. His eyes closed.

"Good," he said.

 


	19. Peace and Privacy

Mycroft was seen immediately. Within minutes of arrival, they were shown to a quiet private room where a nurse took care of his wrists. She cleaned the cuts and dressed them, checked his bare feet for injuries, then got him to lie down while she gently examined his abdomen. 

Internal bruising, she said, directing her reassurances through instinct to Greg. Rest and painkillers would help. He would likely feel sore for several days.

As he was examined, he didn't let go of Greg's hand for a moment. 

They brought him a cup of strong, sweet tea to drink and a sandwich to eat. When he'd finished both, all he seemed to want was to nestle quietly into Greg's side on the couch and gaze at the television mounted in the corner, watching the adverts roll by with a numb look of exhaustion.

Greg held him gently, kissed his head and let him stare.

After almost twenty minutes, it occurred to Greg he was still wearing body armour. Mycroft watched him take it off, his eyes a little rounded. Greg left it all piled on the medical bed. There was nothing he could do about the boots; those would have to stay for now. 

"There," he murmured, as he settled back down on the couch. Mycroft leant quietly into his arms. "D'you want anything else to eat, beautiful?"

Mycroft shook his head, his cheek resting on Greg's shoulder.

"Your painkillers kicking in?"

Mycroft nodded. Greg stroked a hand down his back, placing a gentle kiss between his eyes.

"Good," he said, softly. "You rest then, darlin'. Settle yourself down. Someone'll be here to check on you in a while."

As Mycroft laid a hand over his heart, Greg reached for it gently. Their fingers tangled. 

They held each other in the quiet and let the time pass by.

When there next came a knock upon the door, it was Anthea who stepped through it. Her brain seemed to blink off and on again, finding them there on the sofa, Greg still in leather military boots and combat trousers with Mycroft cuddled into his side.

"How is he?" she asked, as she nudged shut the door. 

Greg noted that all inquiries seemed to be directed through him. He looked down at Mycroft, his heartbeat deepening with it. 

"Think we're okay for now, aren't we? Still settling." He passed his hand over Mycroft's hair. "Proper sleep and a bath next, I think."

Anthea nodded, visibly relieved. 

"Simpson has the car ready," she said. "Whenever the medical team have discharged him, he can return home. I have additional security measures in place at the house already."

Mycroft stiffened strangely in Greg's arms. 

Greg glanced down, pressing his nose into Mycroft's hair. "You okay?" he hummed.

It took Mycroft a moment to speak. "I don't want to - ... n-not to the house. Not today. Please."

"No?"

"My flat. W-With you."

Greg remembered with a dull thud of his pulse. "Darlin'... I'm really sorry. I don't think we can go to your flat. I smashed one of your windows - it was the only way I could think to get a hold of Anthea."

Mycroft said nothing, still hidden against his shoulder.

"I'd say we could go to mine," Greg said, weakly, "but... well, there's nothing to go to."

"I-I'm so sorry..."

Greg's chest tightened. "Don't worry, love. Everything that matters is right here on this couch. Just wish I had somewhere safe and quiet to take you, that's all."

Anthea entered the discussion with care, turning her phone in her hand. 

"I could arrange mobile security," she said. "I doubt there's any continuing threat, of course... but for peace of mind..."

"Mobile security?" Greg raised an eyebrow. "What're you thinking?"

 

*

 

The desk phone began to trill. 

Katie picked it up, tucking the receiver neatly between her ear and her shoulder. 

"Good morning, Cliveden House Hotel. This is Katie speaking. How may I help?"

The woman who answered was polite, clean-voiced and well-mannered, with a quiet calm that Katie could listen to all day. 

"Good morning. I hoped I could make a last minute booking for this evening - with a few special requirements."

"Of course, madam. We have plenty of availability. What special requirements can I arrange for you?"

"My employer and his partner will need a great deal of peace and privacy," said the voice on the phone, "as they've been through something of an ordeal overnight. They'll have a personal security officer with them. Would a quieter area of the hotel be possible? One of the smaller suites, perhaps."

Katie smiled, reaching for the mouse. She gave it a wiggle to wake the computer. 

"That's not a problem," she said. "Just the one night's stay?"

"Ah, no - I imagine rather longer than that. Could you reserve the room for a week to begin with? And I'd like to pay in advance."

"Of course. Let me just bring up our booking system." Katie watched the screen, biting her lip as the software automatically refreshed. From their usual clientele, an 'ordeal overnight' could be anything from an assassination attempt to a dinner party where the soup course was served before the shellfish. She supposed it wasn't her place to wonder. "Okay, there we go. Can I take the names of the guests who'll be staying, please?"

"Certainly," said the woman on the phone. "The names are Mr Mycroft Holmes and Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Mr Holmes has stayed with you previously."

_ Oh my god. _

_ Oh my god, oh my god! _

"Yes - yes, I think I remember Mr Holmes from his last stay with us. It wasn't long ago, was it?" Katie gripped the phone carefully. Strictly speaking, this was not protocol. It was none of her business what had happened - but she couldn't carry on without asking. "I hope they're both alright?"

Mr Holmes's PA hesitated, then seemed to decide it was best to confide. 

"I'm afraid Mr Holmes was held hostage last night," she said. Katie put a hand to her throat.  _ Oh my god.  _ "He's being released from hospital in the next few minutes and while his injuries are minor, he's suffering from considerable emotional shock. It... was quite an evening, in truth. Inspector Lestrade's flat was also destroyed in the fire in Barking which you might have seen reported on national news. Both of them are sorely in need of quiet surroundings."

It took Katie a moment to speak, her heart beating almost too hard to think. 

"I-I see," she said. "I'm so sorry to hear that. I'll make sure they're undisturbed and have everything they need, I promise."

"Thank you, Katie. That would be wonderful." The speaker paused, considering something. "Could you also reserve a single room for the same nights? Under the name of Anthea Houghton, please. It needn't be nearby."

 

*

 

Katie arranged for them to come in through the quieter side entrance. From the sound of things, a busy lobby filled with people arriving for lunch was the last thing either of them needed. She kept all their booking forms to be deal with later in their stay. Mr Holmes was a regular guest; paperwork could wait.

Notification finally came from Mr Holmes's assistant that the car was approaching the estate, and Katie took herself to the side entrance to be ready. A light and gentle rain had begun to fall. She waited just inside the door, watching the courtyard, wishing her pulse would settle into a rhythm she couldn't feel.

The car appeared, rumbling slowly across the gravel, and drew up beside the entrance. 

Mr Holmes's assistant got out first. It could only be her that Katie had spoken to on the phone; she suited her voice, elegant and calm. She stepped from the vehicle and opened an umbrella in one fluid motion, circled round the car in her smart high heels and opened the door to the back seat, shielding the occupants from the rain as they emerged.

Katie's stomach clenched at the sight of Mr Holmes. The poor man looked ready to drop. He was wearing obviously borrowed clothing far too big for him, his hair was dishevelled and dirty, and his face was almost grey with exhaustion. As Gregory helped him from the car, murmuring to him, he leant into his partner's side like a man twice his age.

Mr Holmes's assistant covered them with the umbrella all the way to the door. A security officer came after her, bulky and anonymous in his boxy grey suit. 

They didn't seem to have any luggage with them - just each other.

"I'll be here this evening," Mr Holmes's assistant promised Gregory, and Katie's innards squirmed at the way he turned towards her - like family, she thought. They'd clearly known each other for years. "I'll bring everything the two of you will need. Text me if anything specific comes to mind. It won't be a problem."

"Thanks, doll. I will. Just clothes for now."

"Of course. I'll bring a selection." In the doorway she paused, glancing nervously at Mr Holmes. "I'm a single text away, sir. I hope you sleep well..."

Mr Holmes hesitated. 

As he reached for her, Gregory beckoned without a word for the umbrella.

They embraced beneath its shelter for some time. Mr Holmes's expression tightened as he held her. When at last he let her go, both visibly overcome, her arms transferred at once around Gregory's neck.

"For god's sake," Katie heard her mumble into his shoulder. "Look after him. Please."

Gregory closed his eyes. He dipped his nose into her hair, patting her quietly on the back. 

"He's not leaving my sight," he murmured. "Not for a second. I promise."

She released him, pale, and retrieved her umbrella from his keeping. With a swift dab of her eyes, she turned on her heel and strode back through the rain towards the car. 

As the security officer shut the side entrance door, she vanished from sight.

Katie took her cue. She gestured kindly towards the lift, addressing herself through instinct to Gregory. 

"Would you like to follow me, sir?" she said. "I'll show you up to your room."

 

*

 

It was the same suite as their long weekend; the only difference was the neat white card upon the door. It now featured both of their names, swirled side-by-side in calligraphy and joined with an elaborate ampersand. 

Greg had never been so glad to see a room in all his life. The place felt like they'd never left it - like it had been waiting for them all this time, empty and unoccupied. As they stepped into their suite, he felt Mycroft sag against his side with relief. 

The young woman who'd shown them up was perfect.

"Can I bring you anything?" she asked, quiet and kind, with a warmth which suggested that if the answer was no, she would make herself scarce at once.

"Don't suppose you could do something like a malt drink?" Greg said, still holding Mycroft close to his side. "Horlicks - hot milk... that sort of thing."

She nodded. "Of course."

"And maybe a chair for..." He glanced at their security officer, whose name he didn't know. "You don't mind me putting you out in the corridor, mate, do you? Just need some privacy for a while."

The security officer seemed quietly surprised to be asked, rather than told. "No worries, sir."

"Thanks." Greg hesitated, glancing once more at the assistant. "And... listen, I'm getting cheeky now, but... you've got the spa downstairs, right? Would they lend me some bubblebath? I don't mind what's in it. Just something to - " He tightened his hold around Mycroft.

She nodded again. 

"Leave it with me, sir," she said. That gentle expression was a promise. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

She left, along with the security officer; the man closed the door behind them.

In the quiet which fell, Mycroft curled into Greg's arms. Greg held him tightly, rocking him with a slow sway from side-to-side.

"Alone," he murmured, kissing Mycroft's shoulder. "Safe, sunshine. Home for now. Safe and sound and far away."

Mycroft's hands shook as they closed in the back of his shirt. "I-I love you."

It was one of the few things he'd said with any consistency for hours. Greg's chest grew as he inhaled those words, rubbing Mycroft's back very gently. 

"I love you too," he whispered. He nuzzled against his lover's cheek, every cell in his body singing with it.  _ Here. Safe. Here in my arms.  _ "I love you too. I love you to pieces. I won't ever be out of arm's reach of you again, you know that? I'm gonna be right here, holding you, for as long as you live... you'll spend the rest of your days begging me for space, darlin'. Pleading for five minutes' peace."

Mycroft began to cry. His hands turned into claws; they clenched in Greg's shirt as he sobbed.

Greg wrapped him ever tighter in his arms.

_ God, if I could hide you away - every inch of you - cover you, keep you -  _

"I love you," Mycroft wept in his ear. "I love you.  _ I love you." _

Greg breathed each one back, rocking him slowly on the spot. 

"I love you, My... I love you, too... cry, sweetheart. It's okay to cry." He felt tears rise in his own eyes at last. He pressed them against Mycroft's hair, letting them fall. "M'right here..."

For long minutes, he simply held Mycroft in his arms. They cried together, quietly rocking as emotion washed the first layers of shock from their systems. There would be more of it to release - Greg anticipated doing little else for the next few days but resting here, ebbing between comfort and grief, crying and sleeping when they needed to. This was where the healing began. Every minute of tears would bring them a little closer to normality.

By the time a gentle knock sounded against the door, they'd drained back into a quiet sort of calm.

The girl from guest services had returned. Greg watched with a faint smile as she laid a tray with two malt drinks on their coffee table then placed a box of chocolate truffles beside them. She turned to the young man who'd accompanied her; he was carrying a sizeable cellophane-wrapped gift basket. 

She nodded. He placed it with care upon their bed.

"With the compliments of the management, sir," she said. "A couples' treatment in the spa has been credited to your account as well. If you need anything, guest services are on hand twenty-four hours."

Greg had never wanted to hug a customer assistant before. 

He'd clocked her badge as she came back in. "Katie, right?"

She nodded, her eyes soft. She was worried for them; he could see it. "Yes, inspector."

Greg's heart strained gently. 

"Thank you," he said.

She gave a quiet bow; she and her colleague left. The door closed after them. There came a discreet click as it locked - their security officer was on guard outside. They wouldn't be disturbed until they wanted to be.

Greg picked up the tray from the coffee table. 

"Let's get settled, love," he said.

Mycroft trailed at his side like a ghost as he carried the malt drinks to the bathroom. If he was confused by Greg laying the tray beside the bath, he didn't show it. He watched Greg strip the cellophane from their gift basket, search through the selection of products and pick out a bottle of bubblebath. 

Greg quietly checked the label: cedarwood and juniper.  _ Sounds fine.  _ He started up the bath. 

Water gushed from the tap, piping hot at once. Its rumble against the porcelain filled the room with gentle sound.

He then turned to his lover, gathered Mycroft close, and gently kissed his cheek.

"Can I take these hospital clothes off you?" he said. "Anthea'll be here with your own things later... but we'll manage in dressing gowns until then, won't we?"

Mycroft nodded, settling into his arms. 

Carefully Greg set about undoing the unfamiliar buttons. It had been good of the hospital to lend the clothes; Mycroft couldn't have travelled all the way to Cliveden in a thin white shirt and no shoes. The garments didn't smell like him, though. They didn't smell of home. They were a temporary measure, and if there was one thing Greg didn't want Mycroft to feel right now, it was temporary.

As he undressed Mycroft by the bath, he stripped off his own clothes as well.  _ Can't have you standing there naked, darlin', while I'm in leather combat boots.  _ The boots looked ridiculous discarded on the posh heated tiles. The cargo trousers joined them, and Greg's boxer shorts too, until finally they could cuddle skin-to-skin within the swirling cloud of fragrant steam.

"There," he murmured, running his hands up Mycroft's bare back. Mycroft trembled against him, inhaling at the side of his neck. "That's better, beautiful... we'll wash last night away. Hot milk drink to settle you then we'll crawl into bed. If you want to lie quietly and cuddle, we can. If you want to talk, we'll talk. If you want to go to sleep, we'll do that."

Mycroft's fingers curled against his back. He nuzzled nearer to Greg, shivering.

"I... I thought..." He tightened his grip around Greg's waist. "I thought I'd never - "

Greg closed his eyes, aching. 

"I know, love," he murmured. "We came close to the wire. It'll take a while to process that."

Mycroft shuddered. "Y-You mean everything to me."

_ Jesus.  _ "Darlin'..." Greg whispered, overcome. 

"I-I am in love with you. I have been for some time. I love you very, very much - and I should have told you - f-from the start, Greg - I s-should have told you - "

"Shhh... shhh, love, it's alright... I should've told you, too." Greg nuzzled into Mycroft's shoulder, kissing the curve of his neck. "Scared of wanting more than you wanted. Scared of scaring you away..."

Mycroft shuddered. "I want - " he said. His breath caught in his throat. 

"Tell me," Greg whispered. He squeezed Mycroft slowly. "I won't go, love, I promise. Go on and tell me."

Mycroft's fingers stroked through his hair, shaking. 

"E-Everything," he breathed. "I want you. I want to care for you. I want to make you happy."

_ God.  _

"I want that, too." Greg nuzzled gently for his lips. "That and more."

"G-Greg..." They kissed, slow and deep; Mycroft's body trembled in Greg's arms. "Greg," he whispered again, as if lost. "M-My Greg..."

"All yours," Greg murmured, taking his hands. He helped Mycroft into the bath. "S'okay, darlin'... I've got you. Take your time."

The hot water seemed to curl itself around them. Greg leant back against the side, gathered Mycroft to lie safe against his chest, and reached for one of the mugs of malted milk.

"Here," he murmured, guiding it into Mycroft's hands. "Should be cool enough to drink now."

Mycroft trembled, taking it carefully. "Thank you..."

"We can stay here as long as you want, sweetheart. The hot water should help ease your back a little. We'll get you clean again, get you comfortable... if you want to stay right here all afternoon, we can."

Greg watched Mycroft drink for a moment, gently stroking his back.

"Anthea'll bring your home comforts for you later. That'll help. If you think of anything specific you want, just tell me and I'll text her."

Mycroft swallowed. He held the mug quietly against his chest for a moment. "I'm so sorry about your flat, Greg."

"Not your fault, darlin'."

"I - I can't imagine..."

Greg smiled faintly, stroking back his hair. "S'weird," he murmured. "If it had burnt down last week... I don't know, I'd probably care a lot more. It'd be a nightmare. All I feel right now is relief."

"Greg... all your things..."

"Just things, love. Shops are full of new things." Greg kissed the top of Mycroft's head. "Could've lost a lot more than things."

"Greg..."

"When I thought you were in that fire... J-Jesus, Mycroft. I didn't want to live."

"Greg - "

"I mean it, darlin'. I wouldn't have been alright again. Ever. I wouldn't have coped."

Mycroft stirred in Greg's arms. He moved the mug to the side of the bath and shifted quietly in the water to look down at Greg. He took Greg's face into his hands.

As he watched Greg, emotion tightened his mouth; his eyes were reddened and shining.

"I love you," he said. He wore the strangest expression - it was almost suspicious, as if he couldn't quite believe something; as if he were surely seeing things not truly there. He searched Greg's eyes. "I love you very,  _ very _ much."

Greg felt his heart kick.

"I love you too..." He reached up to wrap his fingers around Mycroft's wrists, holding his lover's hands to his face. "M'here, darlin'. I'm not going."

Mycroft was silent for a moment, grappling with some thought Greg couldn't see. 

"I want you to stay," he said, watching for reaction. Tears filled his eyes. "I want you to care for me. I want you to treat me as a priority."

Greg's heart seemed to draw a breath. 

"You're my  _ only  _ priority," he said, staring up into Mycroft's eyes. He slid his fingers between Mycroft's own. "You're all I want in the whole bloody world."

Mycroft swallowed, hard. 

"I want you to be mine," he said. "S-Solely mine."

_ Fuck. Please.  _

"I am yours," Greg said, his throat tightening. "Been yours for a while now. A good while." He held Mycroft's gaze, wishing he could let those sharp grey eyes straight through into his mind - let them scan and search and analyse whatever they wanted, see it all laid out for themselves in black-and-white. "I'll find a way to prove it, darlin'... I'll show you. I promise. I'm going nowhere."

The gloss in Mycroft's eyes thickened; his tears began to fall. 

"I want you to be mine for some time," he whispered.

Greg's heart thumped in response. He tightened his grip on Mycroft's fingers.

"Unless you chase me off with a brush," he said, "I'm not leaving."

Mycroft's eyes flashed, more tears rising. "I-I am serious."

Greg didn't move. "So am I," he said.

A small, tight tremor passed through Mycroft's hands. Greg squeezed them tightly.

"M'not leaving," he whispered. Mycroft leant down. As their noses brushed, tears falling onto his face, Greg closed his eyes. "M'not going. I nearly fucking lost you. That's not happening twice."

Their lips sealed. 

Greg had never kissed and cried before. He could still feel Mycroft crying too, warm and silent tears easing down to join his own. 

"Stay with me," Mycroft whispered, shaking. He brushed the words across Greg's lips. "Stay with me while you find a new flat. I will look after you."

_ Christ.  _ "M-Myc - that's - "

"Please. Please let me."

"I'd love to." Greg ran his fingers through Mycroft's hair, his heart beating so hard it nearly hurt. "God, yes. I'd love that."

"We will be here for a while," Mycroft murmured, kissing him still. "A week. T-Two, perhaps. Until I..."

" - until you're ready. Until you feel better, love."

"Y-Yes. Until then."

Greg promised between kisses. "I'll be here. I'll be right here, every step of the way. I'll be here afterwards. As long as you love me, Mycroft, I'll be here."

He felt Mycroft's face tighten. 

"I-I will love you for a long time," he said. His voice broke as his tears returned. He nearly whimpered the words. "A  _ long time,  _ Greg."

Greg stroked across his cheeks, brushing back the tears. 

"Then I'll be here a long time," he whispered. "Just watch me, love."

 


	20. Indispensable

Mycroft woke the next morning to a gentle buzz against his shoulder. He stirred with quiet distress, nestling into the warmth which had surrounded him all night. 

The protective arms around him drew close. There came a kiss to the side of his neck, a murmur of some tender softness; the covers gathered. 

Mycroft exhaled, his pulse settling from its skip. 

_ Here,  _ he thought.  _ You are here.  _

Safe, he let sleep melt over his thoughts.

An indistinct amount of time later, he returned quite gently to the world. As his eyes eased open with a flicker, muffled sunshine and sleep blurred his vision. The room around them was made of soft foggy shapes, bright ribbons of light shining between the drapes. It must be mid-morning.

Greg was spooned against his back, holding him as he slept. One arm wrapped around Mycroft's torso, his hand resting over Mycroft's heart. The other laid along the top of the pillows. 

As Mycroft's vision began to clear, he realised the source of the quiet tapping he could hear. Greg had his mobile phone outstretched. He was texting very carefully with his thumb, attempting not to wake Mycroft.

Spotting the recipient's name at the top of the message window, Mycroft gave a tiny smile.

 

**[09:58] still asleep. Must need it x**

[10:16]  _ Entirely understandable. Might I ask if he ate much yesterday evening? A _

**[10:40] I didnt expect he would but in the end yeah, quite a bit... full meal. Staff brought us tea around 9pm and he had a few biscuits too x**

[10:47]  _ Good. A heightened appetite can be very normal after shock. A _

**[11:22] Yeah... I figure his body knows what it needs... best if we just keep supplying it x**

[11:28]  _ Is there anything that you need or want? A _

**[11:29] god no, dont worry about me. I'm fine x**

 

"You need breakfast," Mycroft murmured, closing his eyes. "It is nearly noon."

He felt Greg smile against his temple. "You're asleep."

"Mhm."

"I'll have food when you do," Greg said. He nudged his phone away across the pillow. "How are you?" he asked, gathering gathered Mycroft tight into his arms. Mycroft felt his heart give a heady thump.  _ It is real. All of it. I am alive. _ "Did you sleep okay, love?"

Mycroft lifted his head into the nuzzling at his cheek, enjoying the soft scratch of stubble across his skin. "I love you."

Greg grinned; his fingertips stroked over Mycroft's heart. "I love you, too."

"I don't believe I've ever slept this late in my life."

"S'okay, gorgeous... I won't tell anyone."

"You must have been terribly bored."

"Been drifting in and out of sleep... I think both of us needed the rest. We had a rough time yesterday. It's nice to hit the reset button."

"Mm..." Mycroft laid his hand gently over Greg's, holding it there against his heart. "I'm - very glad we're here."

Greg's nose nudged behind his ear. 

"Me too, love. It's definitely helping."

A cosy quiet settled all around them. Mycroft exhaled, leaning back into his lover's embrace.  _ My boyfriend,  _ he thought. Warmth glowed somewhere behind his ribs.  _ You found me. You came for me. _

"Whatever you feel like doing today," Greg murmured, brushing back his hair, "we'll do. You just let me know. Anthea's handling all your work stuff... you don't have to think about any of that. Your only job is resting and recovering with me."

Mycroft couldn't keep the smile from his mouth. "You are wonderful."

"M'lucky, is what I am. I'll tell you everyday."

_ "I'm _ the fortunate one, Greg. In far more ways than I deserve."

"Nope, darlin'. It's me." Greg began to lay a line of kisses along his shoulder, dotting against the fabric of his pyjama top. "And I know it for a fact, because you're here in my arms. That's all the proof I'll ever need."

Mycroft's breath caught. "Greg..."

Greg nuzzled lovingly into the crook of his neck. "Hey," he murmured. "Promise me something?"

"Anything." Mycroft didn't need to think; his soul responded for him. "Anything in the world."

Greg hugged him, gently. "Promise you'll always say my name like that."

"Like - ?"

"Like I leave you speechless."

Mycroft's pulse fluttered. He slid their fingers together over his heart, overcome. "I believe I'll have no choice in the matter... expert as you are at taking my breath away."

 

*

 

The day which followed seemed gentle and short - a practice day, where the sun stayed soft and low in the sky. They nested together in their suite, talking quietly in bed and sharing cigarettes in the bay window, watching the river. Mycroft drifted between wanting to eat and wanting to nap, at all times wanting to be held in Greg's arms. 

In a few days, perhaps these instincts would seem infantile - indulgent - an animal fragility, to be suppressed and put aside. 

But for now, Mycroft's whole world existed within the walls of this room. There were no strangers, no cars and no streets. His lover's gentle eyes were the only ones he felt - and when they looked into his own, they held nothing but love. 

If Mycroft's needs were indulgent, Greg clearly wanted to indulge them.

By the time darkness fell, they hadn't even changed from pyjamas. There was no need to put them on before bed. Mycroft hadn't spent such a span of time in his nightwear since he'd had his appendix out as a teenager; it felt terribly reassuring.

Greg kissed the top of his head, watching him as he ate another spoonful of vanilla ice cream.

"S'just your turn for fuss, love," he murmured, scooping a little more from the bowl.  _ Ice cream in bed. Unthinkable.  _ "You can have as much of it as you want."

Mycroft remembered saying those very words. That night felt as if it were yesterday. Painkillers, comfort and Indian food, Greg's eyes glossy with exhaustion. Mycroft had never been so affected by the sight of another human's pain. 

Quietly it occurred to him what lengths he'd now be going to, if this eventuality had arisen in reverse - Greg taken, held, nearly executed by some enemy of Mycroft's.

Greg smiled as he offered out the spoon. 

"I wanna be what you need," he said.

Mycroft's heart tightened. 

He leant forwards, taking the spoon contentedly into his mouth. As he ate, he watched Greg's eyes warm.

"I love you," Greg murmured.

The words washed through Mycroft gently. He held Greg's gaze, lost in the love shining back at him. 

_ In what I thought were final minutes of my life,  _ he thought,  _ I imagined the entirety of it with you. _

He could still imagine it.

Such a realisation should scare him. That scale of commitment was enormous; it wasn't a bond he'd ever expected to form. A life partner, loyalty indefinitely. In chronological terms, he'd had access to Greg's true feelings for no more than days.

And yet the thought remained so comfortable in his mind.

_ Because I lived the alternative,  _ he thought. For a few minutes, it had been reality. They'd lost the possibility of forever. 

Having that chance back could never frighten him.

Overwhelmed for a moment, Mycroft could only gaze.  _ I hope I marry you one day. I hope very, very much. _

Greg smiled; he bit the corner of his lip. 

"You okay?" he asked. He eased more ice cream onto the spoon. "It's good stuff, isn't it?"

Mycroft's heart swelled. "It is," he said.

They took a gentle bath together, then settled in bed by the light of the lamp. Drifting towards sleep again, cradled safe against Greg's chest, Mycroft caught a quiet buzz from the nightstand.

His lover shifted, reaching over.

"Just Anthea," he said, checking the phone. "Hopes you're getting on alright..." He began to respond, typing quietly. "Is there anything you want from home, darlin'? Anything you need?"

The house was not home.

Everything Mycroft needed was here. 

"Please tell her I'm well," he said, resting his cheek against Greg's chest. 

"I will, sunshine." Greg leant down to kiss the top of his head. "You get comfy. Won't be a minute."

Mycroft closed his eyes, at peace. 

He fell asleep to the gentle tapping of keys.

 

*

 

"Sweetheart...?"

Dreams clung like cotton wisps to Mycroft's mind. Greg's voice stirred through them, soft. Unsure if he was truly awake, Mycroft laid in the quiet and drifted instead, half-aware of Greg's fingers stroking through his hair.

"Come in," he heard Greg say to someone else, his smile audible. "He's still asleep."

Mycroft recognised the careful click of her high heels. 

"You don't mind?" she murmured.

"S'fine," said Greg. "I bet PAs see a lot worse... pull up a pew."

There came the sound of a chair being quietly moved across to the bedside. Greg shifted a little, keeping Mycroft cradled to his bare chest as he reached for something Anthea passed him.

"You utter star," he breathed. Mycroft became aware he could smell bacon. "So... what did you wanna tell me?"

"It can wait, of course," she whispered. "An update on the situation, that's all. I wouldn't want to bother Mr Holmes with it, but... if your desire for retribution is as keen as mine, I thought you'd wish to know."

"Ian Starr?"

"Mm."

"Tell me," Greg said, taking a careful crunch from what sounded like a toasted sandwich. Mycroft tried not to smile. 

"Acting DI Donovan has been immensely open to our assistance," Anthea whispered. "She's granted us access to all areas of the investigation."

"And?"

"And we'll be able to supply Scotland Yard with evidence for whatever charges you wish to lay before a court. The man will go to prison for an exceedingly long time. There are a number of historic suspected crimes in his record which we also might be able to prove - it might take us a little longer, but our reach extends to rather darker places than yours. Whatever time and resources are needed to ensure Ian Starr will never trouble any of us again, I will find them."

"That's good to hear. Sally handling everything okay?"

"Yes. Magnificently. I believe you'd be very proud, inspector."

"What about the kid? Johnson?"

"Jackson," Anthea whispered. Mycroft felt his throat grip. "Recovering well, and highly willing to talk. He'd make a poor witness, especially up against Ian Starr - but he's giving us leads we can then investigate and prove in other ways."

"Don't put that kid anywhere  _ near _ a witness box. Jesus, Anthea, promise me. Especially if you've bloody paid him."

"We wouldn't dream of it," she said, amused, "and he hasn't been paid a penny. When Starr has been convicted, the boy will find himself the lucky recipient of various funded opportunities. College places, student accommodation, driving lessons. Supermarket gift vouchers. If he thinks he's getting a sports bag full of fifty pound notes, he can think again."

Greg ate another mouthful of sandwich.

"Good," he said. "That's reassuring." He took another bite, chewing. His arm hadn't withdrawn from around Mycroft's waist. "Listen... when this gets to trial, you'll need a hell of a lawyer. You'll need the bloody best. Starr scrubs up well and he talks the talk."

"And he's now met his match," Anthea whispered. "We have lawyers who could get the pope off a charge of Catholicism. The bastard is going to prison."

Greg's quiet chuckle lit Mycroft's heart. "For a good while, let's hope."

"Inspector, if I have to fabricate charges to increase the sentence to what it should be, I will."

"Should I pretend I didn't hear that?"

"Look me in the eye, and tell me Ian Starr shouldn't have been removed from society a long time ago."

"Alright. You've got me there." Greg handed her his plate, tightening his hold on Mycroft gently. "Thanks. Hey - listen - thanks for keeping me settled, when everything was... I don't think I'd have made it without you. I mean it."

Mycroft's heart thumped softly against his ribs.

"Mr Holmes's welfare is my priority," Anthea said, quietly. "His welfare is now you, Lestrade. I intend to make myself indispensable to you both."

There came a happy pause.

"'Greg'," he murmured.

Mycroft could almost see her smile. 

"Greg," she said, gently. "I'll leave you both to rest. If it seems prudent at any point, please tell him I have quite the list of well wishes to relay. News has gotten round most of Whitehall by now. Everyone is concerned for you both."

Greg's chest expanded a little against Mycroft's cheek. "Both?"

"Mm. It's known you led the team into the building." 

Greg made a quiet sound of amusement. "I knew the layout of the site, that's all. Didn't even have a gun. It wasn't some kind of... heroic rescue."

Anthea returned her chair to the window. 

"I'm afraid I won't be dignifying that with a response, Greg," she said. "Text me if I can be helpful."

 

*

 

They took a quiet stroll in the afternoon. Not quite ready for woodlands, they stayed within the gardens. Midweek, mid-afternoon, the grounds were perfectly empty; it still felt as if they had the world to themselves.

Greg was never out of arm's reach. He stayed at Mycroft's side as they wandered, quietly proud, looking rather magnificent in the clothes Anthea had acquired for him. Whether she'd chosen the dark grey jeans and leather jacket purposely to cheer Mycroft up, he couldn't be certain - but it was working, either way.

As they came upon the yew tree maze, Greg gave him a sparkling look and a smile.

"Yeah?" he said.

Mycroft felt the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. He took Greg's hand and allowed himself to be guided through the wrought iron gate.

As they strolled, he leant his head upon Greg's shoulder. Greg's arm settled gently around his waist. The goal of finding their way to somewhere soon blurred from Mycroft's mind, lost in idle conversation and the twisting paths of the two-metre-high yew trees. 

It felt curiously comforting to be lost together. 

"Have they recovered anything from your flat?" Mycroft asked, as a hedge sparrow flittered across their path. The quiet crunch of their footsteps seemed like the only sound in the world.

"Nope," Greg said. "Nothing. Most of the building's gone. I got an e-mail from my landlord... says he's not going to charge me the rest of the month's rent."

"A compassionate soul indeed."

"I know, right? It was fairly funny to read, to be honest... the guy clearly didn't have a clue what to say to me. I'm hoping he'll give me the deposit back, at least."

"As the fire wasn't your fault, I should hope so." They turned a corner and found themselves presented with a choice of left or right. Greg naturally drifted right; content to lay this decision in Greg's hands, Mycroft drifted with him. "I'm very sorry about your home, Greg."

His lover's arm drew him a little closer. He was surprised to glance up and see Greg smiling. 

"It's a pain," Greg admitted, "but... my roots weren't deep there. All the furniture was second-hand or as cheap as I could get. Bit sad about my Greatest Hits of Michael Bolton CD." He gave Mycroft a glittering look. "Otherwise..."

Mycroft's chest twinged as he deduced the source of this sentiment. "You - had an unrooted childhood?"

Greg thought about it. He gave a gentle huff. 

"That's fair," he said. "Nowhere was really... y'know. Mine." He paused, glancing at the path ahead. "If I couldn't carry stuff with me from house-to-house, it wasn't usually there when I got back. You learn not to get precious over too much."

As he paused again, their footsteps slowed. They came to a stop between the yew hedges.

Gently he took Mycroft's hands.

"Home's not a building," he said. "It's where you're welcome."

Mycroft felt his heart squeeze itself into a whole new shape. It left him almost light-headed; he smiled, wrapping his fingers with Greg's. "I quite agree."

He watched Greg's deep brown eyes shine. "You know the best nights I had in that flat?" Greg said.

Mycroft hesitated, waiting.

The corner of Greg's mouth lifted. "The two when you were in it."

Mycroft's pulse kicked, happiness heaving through his chest. He couldn't take his eyes from Greg's, afraid to miss even a moment. He couldn't speak.

Gently Greg pulled him nearer, close enough to press their foreheads.

Mycroft's eyes shut. 

The gardens around them fell quiet, even bird song softening to silence.

"I know it's early days," Greg murmured, as their noses rubbed. "I know we've only just... don't let me freak you out."

_ God.  _ "I-I don't believe you could, Greg. Truly."

"You know I've got it bad for you... right?" Greg paused, stroking the backs of Mycroft's hands with his thumbs. "Really bad. I mean, I... I can't even tell you how close I wanna get, Myc. I don't know how to put that into words without scaring you. You make me feel like nothing before really mattered. Like it's all just started properly."

Mycroft swallowed, quite certain his heartbeat could now be heard. 

"Greg," he whispered. "Greg, I... I don't foresee a time I won't long for you." His throat tightened. "I have never needed anyone before. I need you. I want to need you all my life."

As he opened his eyes, he found Greg's opening too.

Their gazes met.

Greg didn't seem to be breathing. 

"Promised," he whispered. He took a moment to speak again, swallowing something back. "Promised you I'd be there when you need me. I never put an end date on it."

His eyes lowered to their joined hands; his fingers gripped Mycroft's gently.

"I love you." Mycroft had now heard those words a hundred times. They still set his soul aflame, all the more for being whispered. "I love you. I nearly lost you, love. I wouldn't have been able to handle that. You'd better mean that you want me to stay - or you're gonna have a problem on your hands."

Mycroft reached up to hold Greg's face, gazing into his eyes. His chest ached as he let himself think it:  _ the eyes of the man I will marry. The eyes of the man who'll grow old in my arms. _

"I adore you, Greg," he breathed. "I've barely even begun to show you."

Greg's mouth twitched - a strange, sudden flattening. 

He started to cry. 

Mycroft wrapped both arms around him.

They held each other, shaking, as the tears rose up and then quietly eased. Mycroft stroked Greg's hair, murmuring to him - soft words, love and promises - words of care.

"T-Think we were meant to find the centre to do this," Greg said at last, giving him an amused and tearful glance as he pressed his sleeve to his cheeks. 

Mycroft smiled, producing a hankerchief for him. "We are the centre, darling."

 


	21. Brighter

Mycroft was still sleeping late.

It was a good sign, Greg thought. A week into their stay here, seven days since their ordeal, and Mycroft showed no signs of rushing his recovery. When he and Anthea talked work, it was only ever briefly - and only about things which sounded important.

From what Greg could tell, the official status of Mycroft Holmes was _inactive until further notice._

He hoped Mycroft continued to make the most of it - and he was doing all he could to encourage that. Sleeping together until eight had become the norm now. In the last couple of days, they'd taken breakfast downstairs in the restaurant instead of in their suite. Long walks filled their afternoons, with hot drinks and hot showers to follow.

Yesterday evening, kissing under the falling spray, their hands had gently wandered for the first time since the kidnapping. It had been no more than light stroking, feeling each other's bodies as they kissed. Greg had dried Mycroft and given him a backrub, then they'd settled to cuddling and a film on the laptop. All the same, the return of quiet intimacy had been nice. Greg had no intention of pressing this development in any way - only to continue to be here, guarding his lover's welfare, helping him feel safe.

With all the quiet signs of recovery, Greg felt at ease with this morning's brief separation. He wouldn't be away from Mycroft for long, and it was his only real chance to do this before the trial, which could be months away.

"Darlin'?" Greg leant across the bed in the half-dark, kissing Mycroft's temple. "Sunshine..."

Mycroft stirred, murmuring something in his sleep. Greg's heart tugged gently.

"Myc," he whispered, kissing his lover's cheek. "You awake?"

Mycroft gave another quiet shift and reached for him. With a hum, he tried to pull Greg nearer.

"M'heading out, love," Greg whispered, kissing his face once more. "Told Sally I'd be there for ten. I promise I'll be back just after lunch. Promise." He caught Mycroft's sleepy hand in his own, lifted his lover's fingers to his lips and kissed them. "Anthea's gonna keep you company. You can gossip all about me, what a bastard I am for leaving you."

Mycroft's eyes glittered fondly beneath his half-closed lids, gazing at Greg from the pillows. "Please be safe," he murmured.

"I will, sunshine. I'll bring your Greg back to you in one piece."

"Please do. I love him very much."

"I love you, too." Greg slid his hands around Mycroft's jaw, holding him. "Christ, I love you..."

They kissed slowly, their lips brushing and stroking for some time in the quiet. Greg could feel guilt drumming against his ribs with his pulse; he didn't want to leave. He'd be three hours, no more, but every minute of it would feel wrong.

"Say hello from me, won't you?" Mycroft murmured against his lips as they kissed. "Give him my best."

Greg huffed, his stomach hardening. "I'll give him something."

"Will you now."

"Mnh. Already warned Sally to keep me on the other side of the bars."

"Should you get through somehow," Mycroft said, adjusting the back of his shirt collar for him, "and need to be bailed from your own holding cells, call me. I'll send Anthea with the money."

"At least I'll _get_ bail..."

Mycroft made a noise of amusement. Greg pressed their foreheads together, taking one last moment to look deeply into his eyes. He wanted to remember them while he was away; he wanted them right there in his mind.

"I'll see you soon," he said. "I'll make a fuss of you when I'm ho-..."

They realised at the same time. Greg grinned, sheepish; Mycroft stroked his cheek.

"When I'm _back,"_ Greg corrected himself. "Make a fuss when I'm _back."_

"Mhm. Come home soon."

Greg's grinned redoubled. "I will."

"I love you."

"I love you, too." One last kiss - Greg closed his eyes, committing every detail of it to memory; Mycroft's arms wrapped gently around his neck, the mattress still warm beneath his lover's back, Myc's pyjamas all rumpled and soft. "Fuck, I love you. I love you to pieces."

He felt Mycroft smile into the kiss. "Go, Greg... or it will be lunchtime before you've left."

"I'll just text Anthea, tell her I'm leaving."

 _"I_ will text her. Please get on the road, darling. It's an hour to London."

"Alright. M'going now."

"I notice you're still here kissing me?"

"Last kiss," Greg promised, cupping his face again. He stroked his thumbs beneath Mycroft's mouth. "D'you want me to order your breakfast while I go past the front desk?"

Smirking, Mycroft reached for a pillow and doffed him over the head with it. Greg dodged the second swing with a grin.

"Chasing me off?" he said. "I knew it was only a matter of time."

"This isn't a brush," Mycroft said, his eyes flashing with delight, "it is a pillow. Purely temporary. It banishes you from my sight for somewhere between three and four hours, and not a single moment more."

"D'you want anything fetching from London?"

"Gregory!"

"What?" Greg said, now grinning by the door. As a cushion flew towards his head, he grabbed it from the air. "You want more pillows bringing up, do you? I'll go ask the desk."

"Gregory Lestrade, we are growing old."

"Don't grow too much without me." Greg unlocked the door, tossing the pillow back with a wink. "Bye, gorgeous. See you this aft."

 

*

 

Sally hugged Greg the moment he came through the door.

"How's your boyfriend?" she asked, pulling back to smile at him. "Is he settling at all?"

Greg's heart gave a fond twinge. It still felt a little bit wild to be talking about Mycroft - and a little bit wonderful to be asked about him.

"Better everyday," he said, returning her smile. "Not sure he'll ever set foot in Peckham again, but... probably not a huge loss. He never liked artisan avocado toast anyway."

Her mouth twisted.

"Glad you're both on mend," she said. "There's a 'best wishes' card making the rounds. Should be ready for when you're back."

"People're too kind."

"Concerned for you," she said, nudging him on the elbow. "For both of you. We spend our lives dealing with crooks and criminals... every police officer's worst nightmare, someone getting to your family. The whole place is sorry you had to go through it."

_My family._

_Christ._ It was hard for Greg to ignore the leap of his heart.

"At least he won't be getting to anyone else," he said, unlocking the door of his office.

Sally's eyes flashed with amusement.

"Definitely not," she said, as she leant in his doorway. Her arms folded across her chest. "I can't believe the amount of evidence your fella's team are turning up. I think we've got enough to send him away for the next millennium... convictions for violating every single English law at this rate. Give it another week and we'll nail him for cheating on his year two spelling test."

Greg threw his coat over the back of his chair.

"No more than he deserves," he said. He'd come in casual clothes; this wasn't really on the clock. For the most part he was here for unofficial restorative justice. "Show me what you've got so far?" he said, smiling at Sally. "Know you're busy. I don't wanna be away too long."

"Sure," she said, returning his smile. "Let me grab us some coffee."

 

*

 

The occupant of the holding cell sat hunched on a narrow wooden bench towards the back, his head down and his shoulders set. Even at a distance, he put out the silent brooding anger of a silverback. This was not his territory. He was a captive, and he didn't like it one bit.

Regarding the scene, Greg gestured for Sally to stay out of sight near the door. She nodded; he thanked her with a glance.

As he stepped before the bars, his footsteps quiet on the concrete, the prisoner finally glanced up.

Ian Starr's jaw tightened at once. He didn't say a word. There was no need; his face said it all.

Greg smiled at him, the very picture of pleasantry.

"Alright, Ian?" he said. "How's things?"

Ian glared, unspeaking for several moments more. He visibly ran his tongue across his teeth. "You're making a mistake, Lestrade."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "What... this?" He gestured around the cell. "Nothing to do with me, mate. I'm on compassionate leave, sorting out _your_ mistake... which was burning down my home, then paying someone to execute my partner."

Ian didn't react. "'Nothing to do with me, mate'. Nothing's proven."

Greg clicked his tongue. "That's always the way with you, though... isn't it? 'Nothing proven'." He tilted his head. "Someone else gets the blood on their hands. You comb your hair smart for the jury, put on a proper suit and skip away free. It's a nice routine you've worked out."

Ian's mouth thinned. "You're the one who does the skipping, Lestrade."

Greg shot him a dubious look. "Petty homophobia? Can't say I'm surprised."

"Is there a reason you're bothering me?" Ian asked, still glowering from the back of his cell. He shifted his weight upon the narrow wooden bench. "Or can I have some peace?"

"I came to say goodbye, that's all. From what I've seen upstairs, you're going away for a good while."

Ian smirked with a grunt. "I've heard that before."

"It's true this time."

"I'll believe it when I see it." Ian leant back against the concrete wall, surveying Greg with disdain. He crossed his legs at the ankle. "I didn't lay a finger on your 'partner'," he said, and Greg's pulse quickened at the audible air quotes. He kept it off his face. "So I'm not going to prison for it, Lestrade. It's pretty simple. I don't know what else to say to you."

"Shame that's not how the law works." Greg eased his hands into his pockets. "Persuading or pressuring other people into committing a crime on your behalf is also illegal."

Ian shrugged. "That doesn't matter," he said. "I've never done it."

"Unless we can prove you did. In which case..."

"Good luck with that."

"Not needed," said Greg. "But thanks. You know you should've taken Myc's offer, don't you?"

Ian's gaze wandered. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"He offered you money to let him go." Greg raised an eyebrow. "Remember? Security services would have paid it without blinking. You could've named a figure. Bought yourself a ticket to anywhere... made a run for it... instead you're here, no bail, net tightening. Must be frustrating."

There came a wary pause.

"'Security services'?" Ian said.

Greg flashed him a tight smile. "Easier than listing every organisation. All those initials. Mycroft's got the authority to vaporise a small country if he wants to."

Ian searched his face. "Who the hell is 'Mycroft'?"

"My partner. He gave you a false name. Pretty standard for a senior government consultant when they're kidnapped. It's also pretty standard for a covert ops team to be sent to retrieve them. I've gotta say, Ian... Jackson nearly pissed himself when he had eight assault rifles trained his way. I've never seen someone so desperate to get out of a situation... any way he can."

Ian said nothing whatsoever, now staring at Greg with a look of intense concern.

Greg gave him a glinting smile.

"Starting to realise you bit off more than you can chew?" he asked. "At least you'll have plenty of time behind bars to think things through this time... figure out exactly where you fucked up. I'll give you a starter."

He held Ian's panicked stare.

"You think you're the only big deal in London," he said. "You're not. You're nowhere near. There are people in this city with real power, _proper_ power, and they make tossers like you look like a joke. You just tangled with one. You flubbed it, Ian. You lost."

Ian had turned pale. "I want to see my lawyer."

Greg huffed.

"I bet you do," he said. "By the way... when you're eventually back on the streets? You'll never take another unmonitored step in your life. The security services are gonna watch you like a hawk. Every phone call you make, every text you send, every person you ever see for a drink, Mycroft's team will know about it."

His jaw set.

"Let's see you operate a criminal gang when MI5 are alerted every time you take a shit."

Ian got up from the bench. His voice rang from the concrete walls. "I _want to see my lawyer now."_

"Just your lawyer?" said Greg. "Or shall we fetch your mum as well?"

Ian's face warped.

 _"Fuck you,_ Lestrade!" he roared. _"Fuck you to hell!"_

Greg smiled, entirely unmoved. 

"Have a nice life," he said. "Stay the hell away from my family."

 

*

 

It was still rather pleasing to see Anthea in jeans. At Mycroft's invitation, she'd taken to casual clothing for the duration of their stay here - it helped to keep his thoughts at some distance from work. Ever elegant, she made the denim seem smart with her pale grey heels and a pussy bow blouse, her hair worn loose in perfumed waves around her face.

She arrived in the suite just as the staff tidied up after breakfast, a smile on her face and a white paper bag in her hand.

She gave the bag to him as her first port of call; a brief glimpse of the green cross logo jogged his memory.

"Ah," he said, with a somewhat awkward smile. "Thank you."

"Not a problem."

"I'm - sorry to - "

"I'm always happy to arrange your medication, sir. Please don't worry."

 _Medication._ Mycroft slipped the bag into his bedside drawer, telling himself not for the first time lately that she was overdue a salary increase.

"Work items first?" she suggested, opening his laptop on the desk. "There's very little this morning. A few small queries which need your direct input, but the rest is in order."

Mycroft nodded. It was worth getting these things out of the way. He asked one of the staff if they'd be kind enough to bring more coffee, then joined his assistant at the desk.

It took no more than half an hour to attend to the few matters at hand. In light of his daily workload for the past twenty years, he felt rather guilty to be involved in so little - but then, his senior colleagues had been insistent on him taking the time to recover; Greg and Anthea, too, had seemed pleased to see him resting.

He supposed that a fortnight of minimal duties, in a lifetime of dedicated service, could be excused.

Anthea closed the laptop when they were finished, refreshed his coffee with more from the pot, and said,

"You seem a great deal brighter today."

Mycroft couldn't deny that - not for a moment.

"I believe I am," he said, smiling as she passed him his coffee. "Thank you. I had an excellent night's sleep."

Her eyes sparkled fondly. "Pleasant surroundings seem to have been very beneficial to your recovery."

"Yes... it's rather easy to put it all behind me, here. I hope it continues when we return to London." Mycroft sat back in his chair, taking a quiet sip of coffee. "May I confide something to you?"

"Of course."

He took a moment to find the words. "A week ago, I went through the most unsettling experience of my life. I believed at one point it would be the final experience of my life. It's now been followed by the most... _healing_ seven days I've ever known. I've never been allowed to feel so secure." He brushed his thumb along the handle of his coffee, glancing down into the cup and thinking of Greg. "He is... intensely settling."

He watched Anthea squeeze her own knees gently. "I'm so pleased for you."

"I realise that returning to London might present challenges, but..."

"We'll meet them day-by-day," she said. He lifted his eyes to her, uncertain; her expression softened with reassurance. "If there are complications in your emotional stability, or you find yourself uncomfortable in particular situations, we will adapt. We will alter the situations. I see no reason at all for your happiness to dim when we're back in the city."

His heart lifted quietly, eased by her words. He regarded her for a moment, half-aware of the smile now playing across his mouth. "I feel strange, to be happy. To be willing to forget it all quite so easily."

"I shouldn't reproach yourself, Mr Holmes." She smiled, so visibly glad for him it almost took his breath. "A loved one's care and support have made you resilient. That's not at all wrong."

Warmth stirred behind his ribs. He glanced down into his coffee, smiling, and took a drink.

"His care and support are beyond words," he said. "He's... remarkable, Anthea. More than I ever dreamed. Everyday, he surprises me anew."

"His manner with you is very moving," she confessed. She hid her smile with her coffee cup. "The staff are rather taken with the pair of you, as it happens. You make a charming couple."

Mycroft shot her a wry glance. "'Charming'?"

"Mm. Your affection for each other is very obvious, very natural... he's very protective."

That was certainly true. Mycroft resisted the urge to sigh, lifting his coffee to his mouth. When he'd taken a drink, he said,

"It is lovely to be loved."

Anthea grinned, reaching for the coffee pot. "I believe the front desk keep brochures for weddings to hand," she teased. "Shall I bring one with your lunch?"

He smiled, his stomach squirming happily, and handed her his cup to be refilled. At first he thought to let the remark pass without comment - a gentle joke, he thought, not to be taken too seriously - then he heard his own voice say,

"I... would, you know."

It didn't seem to alarm her in the least.

"And why wouldn't you, sir?" she said. "The surroundings are exquisite. The photographs would be breathtaking and they can cater very comfortably for sixty."

"I mean... _him,_ Anthea. The man. Not the place." He hesitated. "Even at this early stage."

Anthea handed him his refilled cup, her smile as bright as ever. "You seem to think I should be shocked, Mr Holmes."

Mycroft's heart gripped. "Are you not?"

He'd never seen her look quite so pleased - a cat on a sunny windowsill. "Tell me something shocking," she said, "and I'll be shocked."

 

*

 

The final fifteen minutes were almost agony. Greg texted to say he was near; Mycroft resisted the urge to go down to the front desk and wait for him on some flimsy pretence. Instead he busied himself tidying small things in their room - folding Greg's night-clothes for him, rearranging their toiletries together in the bathroom.

In his restless state of anticipation, the sight of Greg's razor casually resting beside his nail brush made him almost adolescently giddy.

_Heaven help me. I shouldn't be so prone to this nonsense._

Mycroft met his own gaze in the bathroom mirror, softening. He allowed himself to smile.

 _I should,_ he thought.

He reached up to arrange the front of his hair, soft without its usual product. It was showing far more of its natural red. Greg liked it. _'Foxy',_ he'd called it last night, lying in bed together after their shower. _'You're so gorgeous.'_ The memory made Mycroft's heart feel as if it were growing, doubling in size by the second. _'M'so bloody lucky.'_

It had felt wonderful to touch again.

After all the previous intimacy they'd shared, kissing and gentle massage in the shower seemed almost ludicrously mild - but it had felt as moving as if they'd never touched before. Greg's hands, gentle and large, had skimmed up and down Mycroft's back with such slowness it made him ache. He'd mapped every inch of Mycroft's skin, carefully and lovingly, murmuring against his neck all the while. _'You're so beautiful. I love you.'_ As Greg dried him afterwards, he'd found himself almost virginally shy.

He'd missed Greg this morning. A few short hours, no more, and the separation had left him restless at the thought of reunion.

They'd been in love for a week now.

This week felt as long as all his life had before it.

As he caught the sound of a knock upon the room door, then the gentle creak of the hinge, Mycroft's heart jumped up into his mouth.

"Sunshine?" came the call.

Mycroft hurried from the bathroom to find Greg still in his coat by the door - holding a wrapped bouquet of red and yellow tulips.

"Oh! _Greg - "_

Greg grinned as he brought them over. They were given with a kiss to the cheek and a gentle hug; the cellophane crinkled between them.

"I've asked the desk to fetch a vase up," he said, stroking his face against Mycroft's. "Thought they'd be nice by the bed."

"Greg, you're... _entirely_ too sweet..."

"How've you been? I hope you've not missed me."

"You wonderful man... of course I have. I've been perfectly fine, and desperate for you to return."

He felt Greg smile against his cheek. "Missed you too. Like mad, darlin'. M'glad I'm back."

"Was it a successful trip, at least?"

"Not sure about 'successful'... 'satisfying', maybe..." Greg released him gently from the hug, pulling off his coat with a small smile. "I gave the bars a good rattling anyway. Nice to see the bastard panic for once in his life."

Mycroft tried not to smile, looking down at his flowers. "Has your thirst for blood been quenched?"

"For now. When I hear a judge hand down a sentence, I'll feel better."

"He's denying all responsibility, of course?"

"Like a trooper," Greg said. He hung his coat behind the door. "Never heard of you, never laid eyes on you. Not sure he's ever been to Peckham. Busy volunteering all that night, helping old ladies cross the road to get to church."

 _How can I possibly smile about this?_  Mycroft thought. _A single week, and my kidnapper has become a source of humour between us._

"The man has cajones, if nothing else," he said, bright-eyed as Greg came back towards him. He placed his tulips carefully aside.

Greg smiled too, reaching to lay his hands either side of Mycroft's waist.

"He's got a nerve," he said. Gently he coaxed Mycroft closer. "He's got a lot to answer for. And he's about to get a prison sentence no less than he bloody deserves."

He leant forwards, kissing the tip of Mycroft's nose.

"I'd break every bone in his body," he murmured, "if the law let me. As soon as they healed, I'd break them all again."

Mycroft did his best not to find this endearing. "Your need to avenge me is... touching, darling. If unnecessary."

"Unnecessary?"

"I doubt Ian Starr considered me more than an extension of you." With quiet pleasure Mycroft watched his lover smile, his gaze lingering on Greg's lips. "I occupied the same space in his mind as your flat did. Property of yours... a way to assert his dominance over you. I don't flatter myself it was anything personal."

He kissed Greg's nose.

"And for what it's worth," he added, "you too are just a symbol in his mind. You're merely an agent of his true nemesis - the law. He cannot hurt an abstract concept, so you will do in its stead."

Greg's eyes grew soft and dark.

"I love your mind." He lifted a hand to stroke Mycroft's cheek. "I wish I had your grace and temperance, love."

"Rather vital in politics. Enemies are often outwardly forgiven, but never once forgotten."

Greg considered this, half-smiling. He bit the corner of his lip. "D'you mind that I can't forgive?"

"No," Mycroft murmured. As he nuzzled against Greg's hand, Greg's thumb stroked over his lips. "Of course I don't mind. If it reassures you, and it soothes your sense of justice, then you can visit him in prison once a week and take a stick. We all tend our wounds in our own way."

Greg's eyes glittered. He watched Mycroft smile, his expression gentle with love. "How're _your_ wounds, beautiful? Are we tending them right?"

Mycroft held the words in his mouth for a moment - then reminded himself he'd not been through this experience to come out of it keeping his emotions to himself, no matter how monumental they seemed.

"You've been wonderful, Greg." Greg's eyes were deeper than he'd ever seen them; their warmth seemed to wrap itself around him, proud and soft and full of things Mycroft couldn't even name. "You've been everything I could need. It's almost enough to forget I was ever wounded."

The moment pulled gently between them, lingering.

Greg's mouth curved.

Mycroft felt his heart thump in response. "Come to dinner," he said. Greg's quiet smile broke into a grin. It took all of Mycroft's resolve not to beg him then and there. _Share a surname with me. Please. Sign your name on the register next to mine. We'll retire to a cottage and keep our slippers by the bed._ "Tonight," he said, his throat tightening. He laid his hands upon Greg's chest. "In the restaurant."

Greg leant a little closer, stroking their noses side-by-side.

"Do I have to dress posh?" he asked.

Mycroft's mouth twitched. "I _adore_ you."

 


	22. Every Breath

The Château Coutet was far too drinkable; the look in Greg's eyes was far too wicked. From the moment two hours ago that he'd emerged from their bathroom, gorgeous in a navy suit and silver-grey tie, Mycroft knew he'd been doomed. He suspected Anthea had been responsible for the swift sourcing of the outfit. Her talent for dressing his lover was only becoming more honed with time; it could well be the end of him.

The wine, the candlelight and those dark playful eyes would surely help.

"Decided?" Greg asked in a murmur, his fingertips stealing fondly into Mycroft's palm.

Even the light stroke of their hands made it difficult to concentrate on the menu. Mycroft focused himself with a sigh, gently catching Greg's fingers. "Still agonising," he said. "The pavlova sounds divine, but I don't think I can turn down chocolate parfait... not when it comes with dulcey crémeux."

"Tough choice."

"Have you decided?"

"Mmhm."

"What are you having?"

Greg's eyes glittered. "The suffle."

With a quirk of one eyebrow, Mycroft glanced back over the menu. His mouth twisted as he spotted it.

 _"Soufflé,_ darling."

Greg visibly masked a smile. "I think you'll find it's pronounced suffle, love."

"Indeed? I'm almost certain it was 'soufflé' last time I had it in Paris."

"You're telling someone called 'Lestrade'," Greg said, eyes sparkling with mischief, "how to pronounce French? Suffle's in my blood, darlin'. My ancestors were raised on it. Suffle for all three meals."

"In that case, dear, it seems I've been mistaken all this time. Suffle it is."

Greg winked. "You can have a spoonful," he promised. "Seeing as it's you."

_Am I even intoxicated? Or is this simply love?_

"How kind," Mycroft said, as Greg began to stroke across his pulse point. The candlelight seemed to hug around them.

A moment of contented quiet came, conversation settling into the brush of their fingertips.

"Love?" Greg then murmured, his voice soft.

"Mm?"

"Got a question for you."

 _Lord._ "I'm listening."

Greg's eyes stroked across his face, dark and gentle in the low light. "What is 'dulcey crémeux'?" he said.

Mycroft's heart squeezed.

"Crème anglaise," he said, helpless to hide his smile, "mixed with chocolate."

His lover's eyes lit up with amusement. "Chocolate custard," Greg translated.

"Mm."

"You're having chocolate parfait served with chocolate custard."

"Or pavlova," Mycroft added, "depending on what is startled out of my mouth when the waiter reappears."

"Will it be as good as my almond peach galette?" Greg asked, grinning.

Mycroft's stomach gave a happy flip at the memory. "No," he said, with utter certainty, "but I doubt they'll allow you into the kitchen to make it for me."

"Shame," Greg said.

Mycroft took a breath - and a risk. "When we're home, perhaps."

He watched his lover enjoy the words, adoring every detail of the expression they caused. "You sure you don't mind me staying with you?" Greg said.

"No. Not at all." _God almighty. Say it, man._ "I'd like you to, Greg. Having you there would make me happy."

Greg bit his lower lip. "Might take me a while to find a flat."

 _I hope so._ "I don't mind," Mycroft said, and watched as Greg took a drink of wine. "In all honesty, I'd... prefer your company. If the window can't be replaced in the central flat in time, I'll have to use the house. Having you there would be reassuring."

Greg had caught the unease in his voice. He put his wine glass aside, returning both hands to Mycroft's. Their fingers tangled. "Why am I imagining dark and draughty corridors?" he said, smiling faintly. "Candlesticks. Disused service bells in all the bedrooms."

Mycroft flushed. There _were_ bells.

"Because you're very insightful," he said, reaching one hand for his wine.

Greg rubbed the backs of his knuckles gently. "You don't like it there. Do you?"

Mycroft released it with a breath at last, suddenly aware of a weight he'd carried for four decades. He took another drink. "No," he said. "Not at all."

"Childhood?" Greg asked, simply.

Mycroft attempted to smile. "Childhood."

"Happens to the best of us." His lover watched him for a moment, gently, weighing up some risk. "Sell it, sunshine. Ghosts and all."

A whirlwind of _'I can't possibly'_ rose up at once. Mycroft wrestled with it for a few moments in silence, horrified by imaginings of what his mother would have had to say about him selling the family home. He found himself lashed by guilt and by fear, by the certainty that he was now entertaining notions of lunacy. When his parents had given him the house to live in - or at least, charged him with its care - it had come with an almost overwhelming of validation. They'd never made such a public declaration of connection to him.

He'd known the reasoning behind their decision, deep down.

Sherlock would have sold the place without a blink; at the time, in his late twenties, the entirety of the proceeds would then have been snorted or injected. Mycroft had only been assigned stewardship of the house because he could be trusted to honour its heritage.

_A heritage I was never truly considered to be part of._

With a deep breath, Mycroft found himself sitting at a restaurant table again. The candlelight fluttered in his lover's eyes - deep, dark, caring eyes.

Greg squeezed his hand, still smiling, and waited for him to speak.

It took a moment or two.

"Perhaps I will," Mycroft said, feeling his chest expand. It left him almost dizzy. "I... suppose there's little sense in continuing to pay a fortune each year on maintenance..."

"If you hate it there, love, don't be there." Greg's fingers slipped from his own as he reached for their menus. "Be somewhere you like. Life's too short to waste."

The waiter appeared beside their table. He refilled their wine glasses for them, asking if they'd care to order dessert. Greg handed him their menus.

"Pear soufflé for me please, mate. And my partner's having...?"

"The parfait," Mycroft said. He watched Greg's eyes glitter. "Thank you."

 

*

 

Alone in the lift, not long after ten, Mycroft nestled into his lover's side. Greg gently kissed his jaw. "Mmhm... you smell good."

"Mm?" Mycroft stirred, lifting his chin with hope. "Of what do I smell?"

Greg sniffed him slowly, nuzzling his way down the column of his neck. "Wine," he murmured. "Smoke. Posh chocolate mousse. S'nice."

"Parfait," Mycroft said with an unconcealed grin, as the lift rumbled beneath them. He could feel warmth glowing pleasantly in his cheeks. "Not mousse."

"Chocolate mousse," Greg said, grinning in return, and kissed the pink in his cheeks, "with chocolate custard on it and chocolate ice cream on the side. That's what I just watched you eat. 'Cause posh people are six-year-olds gone mad with power."

"It was _malt_ ice cream, Gregory..."

"Why did it taste of chocolate, then?"

"Because you _mixed_ it," Mycroft protested, now dangerously close to laughter, "with the chocolate mousse - _parfait!_ \- like a barbarian - "

"D'you know you're bloody gorgeous when you're drunk?"

"Excuse me. I am not drunk."

"Think you are a bit, love. I can tell. You're giggling and calling me Gregory."

"I am _not_ giggling."

"You sure about that? Sounds to me like giggling."

"You're amusing me," Mycroft said, biting into his lip as Greg nuzzled again into his neck, _"on purpose._ And then accusing me of drunkenness. You are a _beast."_

"Mmhm..." A gentle flash of tongue hitched Mycroft's pulse. _"Your_ beast."

Mycroft shivered; he felt his heart swell past the point of containment.

"Greg?" he whispered.

The lift came to a stop. It informed them with a happy ping, and the doors slid open wide.

Reluctantly, kissing his neck one last time, Greg let him go.

"C'mon," he murmured. "Let's get you tucked up in bed, trouble... don't want you roaming the halls, pissed and singing."

Their fingers tangled as they walked along the corridor to their room. Quiet gathered itself around them. At the door, Greg leant against it to look through his pockets, searching for the key.

After a moment he glanced up at Mycroft, amused.

"Penny for your thoughts," he said.

Mycroft surfaced from them with a blink. "Mm?"

"Penny for your thoughts, darlin'." Greg's eyes glittered. "You're miles away."

Mycroft hesitated, watching him - his exquisitely handsome face, the almost coy bite of his lip, the triangle of dark-haired chest offered to Mycroft's gaze by his shirt.

After a moment's indecision, Mycroft quietly stepped closer.

He nestled into Greg, still leaning against their door. Greg's arms wrapped around him without question. They secured him cosily against Greg's chest, gentle fingers soothing at once through his hair.

Mycroft found his lips by Greg's ear. He kissed its shell, quietly, then said,

"I was drinking with purpose. The final glass, at least."

"Mm?" Greg nosed at his temple. "Why, gorgeous?"

_'Gorgeous'. So naturally. So easily._

Mycroft took a moment to speak, holding Greg gently around the waist.

"I want to make love again," he said. Even emboldened by alcohol, it felt reckless and demanding. "I'm... unsure how to tell you. How to ask you."

He was alarmed to hear his mouth continue speaking, long after he'd expected it to stop.

"It seems odd, I know, given our... the manner in which we... a-and that was always quite casual, and quite simple... but now it seems less so. Gladly so. I am glad it is not like that, anymore. But it was useful perhaps, being able simply to tell you that I... to ask, if you would also like to..."

Warm hands slid around his jaw. As Greg tilted his head, Mycroft's voice whispered out.

They came nose-to-nose with a brush of lips.

"Darlin', I know we... well. I know we _told_ each other it was about the sex."

Greg sounded so soft - so quiet. Mycroft had a feeling he'd remember these words for a very long time.

"And maybe the first couple of times, it was." Greg's thumb stroked across his lower lip, pulling it gently. "But after that, love... it's been more than just sex for a while now. A lot more. For a long while, for both of us. Making love with me won't somehow turn things back."

Mycroft's stomach tugged. He exhaled, relieved at once to hear his concerns put so plainly, and tightened his arms around Greg's torso.

"You can have everything," Greg murmured, kissing his forehead. "S'just as easy as it ever was. If you want love, come tell me. If you want me to show you with my hands, tell me."

Mycroft shivered, feeling his breath catch in his throat. "I would like that," he said. "Tonight. Very much."

He felt his lover's smile curved against his forehead.

"I'd like that too," he murmured. "So... here's the plan. We'll let you in, and you can get settled. Shower if you want. Get into bed if you want. While you do, I'll go have a quiet word with guest services. I'll be quick - I promise."

Mycroft paused, pressing his teeth into his lip.

"If you're meaning to source certain items, I... may have done so already..."

Greg smiled, his eyes shining. "Yeah?"

"Anthea kindly delivered them to me earlier."

"What would we do without her?" Greg gathered Mycroft close with one arm, fishing the key from his pocket. He fitted it into the door. "Let's get cosy, sweetheart."

Inside, Mycroft found himself curiously aware of himself and his body. As Greg attended to the lamps, he drifted over to the dressing table and removed his cufflinks, purely for some activity to occupy his hands. He watched his own reflection in the mirror as he stored the cufflinks quietly in their case. It seemed quiet all around them; he found himself oddly shy.

As he slipped his jacket back over his shoulders, Greg appeared.

"Here," he murmured, helping. Mycroft glowed a little, enjoying the gentle  chivalry. "I love seeing you take a jacket off... you know that?"

Mycroft gave him an amused glance, watching him drape the garment over the chair. "Why?" he asked.

"Not many people see you like this. It's nice. Feels... intimate." Greg stepped close behind him again, drawing Mycroft back against his chest. In the mirror, Mycroft could see just their torsos reflected - Greg's arms wrapping over his own, his thicker fingers sliding between Mycroft's. "S'like you're in your lingerie. Makes me feel like a lucky boy."

Mycroft laughed, unable to help it. _"Greg..._ for heaven's sake..."

"I mean it." His lover nosed at his cheek, grinning, placing a gentle kiss near the corner of his mouth. "Sexy, seeing you relax."

"You are ludicrous..."

Greg's hand stroked across his stomach, fingertips brushing between his waistcoat buttons. "Okay if I undo these, love?" he asked.

The tender seeking of permission rather tightened Mycroft's heart. He nodded, watching in the mirror as Greg began to slip the buttons apart, taking his time with each one.

"You know we don't have to go all the way tonight?" Greg murmured. A warm shiver spilled down Mycroft's spine at the very thought. "If you just want to lie down together, touch for a while... whatever we do, we can take it slow..."

"'Slow' might be... enjoyable." Mycroft swallowed, letting his head rest back on Greg's shoulder as the last button came apart. Wine, love and a breath filled him with bravery. "I w-want you inside me."

He almost heard his lover's pulse hitch. "Yeah?"

"I've... missed you. That close."

Greg stroked his waistcoat apart, easing it back from his shoulders.

"We'll take it slow," he said, laying the fabric over the chair. "Take our time to explore again..."

He drew Mycroft back into his arms.

Greg loosened his tie for him, pulled it gently apart, then with a few buttons open and the tie still tucked beneath Mycroft's collar, he nuzzled aside the neck of the shirt. He began to kiss Mycroft's throat, gently, slowly, warm hands wandering over his chest and stomach through the cotton of his shirt.

Mycroft's pulse's began to climb. He relaxed, focusing on his own breath as Greg's mouth teased and soothed his sensitive neck. Greg's hips pressed gently against the pad of his arse, and even though no more than Mycroft's wrists and collarbones were uncovered yet, he could feel Greg's arousal through their clothing.

"You're beautiful," Greg whispered, reaching up to coax apart the next few buttons. "You're just so beautiful."

Mycroft watched in the mirror, his cheeks flushed, as more of his chest began to appear. Greg remained fully dressed behind him, jacket and cufflinks and tie.

"I'll take care of you tonight, darlin'. I promise." Greg eased the neck of his shirt further aside, revealing the slope and curve of one shoulder. His warm soft mouth stroked along it at once. Mycroft watched him in the glass, his chest rising and falling a little fast, overwhelmed by the sight of them together. "God, I've missed you... I've missed your skin..."

A few more buttons came apart. Greg loosened Mycroft's shirt gently from his trousers, slipped open the final button and slid his hands beneath the open fabric, stroking his fingers over Mycroft's bare chest.

Mycroft's pulse hit the ceiling. He shivered, unable to hide his small moan. Greg's hands felt like heaven; he needed them even more than he'd realised. Feeling Greg now touch him with desire stole every wisp of breath from his body. He trembled as his lover's fingers petted him, mapping his skin in careful sweeps.

One hand strayed low onto his stomach, stroking; two fingers traced along his waistband.

Mycroft pressed his teeth into his bottom lip. He nodded with a small sound, blushing.

Greg reached down, infinitely gentle.

His hand cupped Mycroft's groin, palm pressing warm and careful against Mycroft's swollen cock. He began to rub, slowly. His other hand kept up its tender sweeping, skimming over Mycroft's torso as if he were water Greg wanted just lightly to ripple.

"I-I love you," Mycroft whispered, his throat closing briefly as he swallowed. His every nerve sang where Greg was stroking him. He felt alive.

Greg hummed against his neck, soft and proud.

"Mine," he murmured. "My darlin'." His fingertips grazed over Mycroft's left nipple, teasing the sensitive bud. Mycroft's cock twitched behind his zip and he whimpered. "Oh, sweetheart... you really _have_ missed me, haven't you?"

Mycroft could only nod, shaking and overcome.

Greg undid the fastening of his trousers with care. He eased the zip down, loosening the pressure, then slid a hand within Mycroft's underwear and gently freed his cock. Mycroft shuddered to the bone. He reached down to hold Greg's wrist, feel it moving as he stroked. Greg kept his fingers light and loose, almost maddening in their gentleness, settling Mycroft to the touch of his hand.

"Don't think I've ever seen you look so good," Greg whispered in his ear.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered open. He couldn't remember closing them.

His own reflection met his heavy-lidded gaze in the mirror, pink-cheeked and vulnerable in Greg's arms. He took in the sight of his clothing eased apart, his body bare, his cock fully hard and receiving his lover's tender care. He looked debauched; his eyes were glittering.

His own state of dishevelment made Greg, still fully-suited behind him, look as powerful and at ease as a mafia don.

Mycroft gasped a little, shivering; he pushed his cock through the circle of Greg's hand.

Greg smiled against his shoulder. He closed his grip tighter and began to stroke in rhythm, his fingers still desperately gentle as they glided up and down from root to tip. Mycroft stiffened; he moaned under his breath, helpless, and began to rock his hips.

Greg nuzzled into his neck, sighing softly.

"Shall we relocate, beautiful?" he murmured.

"That m-might be best..."

"Alright." Greg kissed the side of his neck one last time. "Turn around for me, love."

Nervous, Mycroft turned. Greg gave him a gentle smile, cupped his face and kissed his lips, then knelt to undo Mycroft's shoes. Mycroft leant back against the edge of the dressing table, trying to settle his pulse as he gazed down. Greg helped each foot from its shoe with care, then dealt with his socks as well, smiling up at Mycroft fondly from the floor.

"You okay?" he rumbled. Mycroft felt his heart squeeze.

"Y-You are very appealing," he whispered.

Greg grinned, leaning into Mycroft's hand as it cupped his cheek. "I'm a bit overdressed, aren't I?"

"N-Not a bad thing."

"No?" Greg eased forwards on his knees, stroked Mycroft's shirt apart again and gently kissed his belly. "D'you like me all posh?" he asked, nuzzling into Mycroft's stomach.

Mycroft's pulse hopped and bubbled as he watched. He touched Greg's hair, brushing the grey strands with his fingers. "It's... evocative."

"And I like you all scruffed up. Kind of interesting." Greg dipped his nose into Mycroft's navel, gazing up at him with those deep, dark and loving eyes. "Maybe we just like what we do to each other, darlin'."

Mycroft smiled, shivering. "A s-sound conclusion, I think."

Greg grinned. He stroked his hands up Mycroft's thighs; his fingers hooked gently around the open front of his trousers.

"Don't worry, love," he said, easing them down, and leant close to lave his tongue across across the underside of Mycroft's cock. "I'll always be here to put on a nice tie and scruff you up. Just ask."

Mycroft shivered again, deeper, gripping the edge of the dressing table behind him with both hands. His trousers passed his knees. "Greg..."

Greg continued to lap at his cock as he freed one ankle then the other, quite capable of concentrating on both. Mycroft quivered, unable to pull his eyes from the sight of Greg's soft pink tongue flicking fondly at the crown of his erection. He exhaled a long and restless breath, let his head fall back and swallowed in the silence.

As his stomach tightened, Greg's hands stroked up his trembling sides.

"Bed now, baby?" Greg murmured.

Mycroft took a moment to compose himself. He could hear his own pulse, quick and fast and hard in the quiet. "B-Bed now."

Greg got to his feet, dotting small kisses up Mycroft's body as he went.

"I love you," he whispered, gathering Mycroft against his chest. The stroke of expensive fabric against Mycroft's bare skin almost cut his breath. It felt electrifyingly good. He shivered with a moan, pressing closer, and felt his heart heave as Greg's embrace wrapped tight around him.

Greg gently coaxed the open white shirt down his arms, leaving him naked at last.

"You're gorgeous," Greg breathed in his ear, and Mycroft clung to him, raking his fingers through his lover's hair. "You're so beautiful I can't even think sometimes. I just look at you, and... god, it's like the world goes quiet. There's just you."

Mycroft had never come so close to swooning.

"Greg..." he whispered, lost. He felt Greg kneel slightly; his right arm eased behind Mycroft's knees. He lifted Mycroft from his feet as if he weighed nothing whatsoever, carrying him calmly across the suite.

Mycroft's heart pounded.

The last time Greg had carried him, it had been out of a living nightmare and into safety. A week had now passed - and somehow Mycroft loved him even more.

Greg laid him in the middle of the bed, as gently as he'd lay down an injured animal. The covers felt cool and soft behind Mycroft's back. He kept his arms around Greg's neck, pulling gently in hope of being joined.

Greg grinned, leaning over him. He stroked a slow kiss across Mycroft's lips.

"One sec," he murmured, and with a careful shift, toed his way out of his shoes. They clunked away somewhere beside the bed, abandoned. In his socked feet he climbed up to be with Mycroft, crawled across the bed to him with a smile, eased himself on top and leant down to claim Mycroft's mouth.

Mycroft's soul flamed with joy as they kissed. Greg's body felt warm and heavy. His mouth was soft; he tasted like the wine they'd just shared. As they pulled each other close, he stroked Mycroft's skin with his loving hands and the rasp of his clothing felt so good that all thoughts of dry cleaning bills went flittering from Mycroft's head like moths. He pulled Greg closer still, grinding up against him with a whimper; he wrapped his bare legs around his lover's thighs.

Greg's tongue eased into his mouth.

They kissed until the need to feel Greg's body overcame the feeling of the fabric. Gasping against each other's mouths, hot-cheeked, they grappled their way through his clothing together. It ended up strewn around them on the bed, discarded piece-by-piece in the struggle to find more and more of his skin. Trousers came off before shirt, the zip easier to deal with than buttons. Greg kicked them off, along with his underwear, then lunged for Mycroft's mouth again. The searing kiss made Mycroft gasp, shuddering as their erections slid together. Greg rutted against him slowly as their mouths stroked, tormenting them both, making it all the more difficult to manage his shirt buttons. Mycroft grappled for the tie instead. He hauled it up, flipping Greg's collar in the process.

Shuddering, and with the greatest of reluctance, Greg pulled back from Mycroft's mouth. He sat up long enough to wrench the tie and half-buttoned shirt up over his head, threw them off the bed and collapsed back on top of Mycroft at once, now naked and panting with almost wolfish longing. Mycroft's senses fried at the full-body rasp of skin. He moaned into Greg's mouth, shaking to the bone, and dug his hands into his lover's back in desperation. Greg began to grind against him, restless and needy thrusts of his hips over and over, their cocks rubbing harder with each one. Whimpering, Mycroft drank Greg's groans.

After only a minute, every inch of his skin now hot and prickling, he was forced to break the kiss.

"Please." He hadn't meant to gasp it. The words shook themselves from his mouth. "P-Please, I... I want..."

Greg shivered against him, breathed hard. "Yeah?"

Mycroft swallowed. He gripped Greg's back tighter, gazing up at him across two inches of space. "Please," he whispered again. "I need... h-holy god, I _need..."_

Greg's pupils grew. He stroked his fingers over Mycroft's cheek, cupping his jaw. "Where's the things from Anthea?"

Mycroft glanced towards the bedside, flushing.

Greg reached across. He opened the top drawer and retrieved the white bag from inside, then shook its contents onto the bed beside them. Mycroft found himself immediately relieved by Anthea's choices; she'd opted for an entirely standard personal lubricant, rather than anything adventurous or pineapple-flavoured. The condoms were the extra safe variety, which was rather sweet of her. She'd bought two packs of twenty. He hoped this was due to them being on offer, rather than her best guess for the week ahead.

Greg reached for the pack, pulling the cellophane off with his teeth.

Sensing Mycroft's pause, glanced down.

"Perhaps... we could dispense with..." Mycroft said, feeling his cheeks glow.

The slight eyebrow lift tugged at his stomach. Greg removed the cellophane from his mouth, brushed it off the bed and placed the condoms away on the bedside, then leant down to kiss Mycroft deeply.

"Do you want my fingers first, love?" he breathed between kisses, unboxing the lubricant. "Help relax you?"

Mycroft swallowed. Greg had always been gentle and patient enough to trust; he didn't want to wait much longer. "N-Not necessary."

Greg's nose nuzzled against his own. "Sure?"

Shivering, Mycroft closed his eyes. "May I... on top of you? At least initially."

"'Course, sunshine..." His lover stole one final kiss, then eased up onto his elbows. "Whatever's easy."

They switched places with care, settling Greg back against the pillows. Mycroft climbed across his thighs; Greg's hands stroked up his chest, petting him as he made himself comfortable.

"You okay?" Greg murmured. He handed Mycroft the bottle of lubricant.

Mycroft took it with a slight shake, opening the cap. "Yes... are you?"

"M'fine..." Greg bit his lip, watching as Mycroft dispensed several pumps into his palm. He shifted a little. "Go as slow as you need, love. Don't rush."

As Mycroft wrapped both hands around his cock, enrobing him in the silky gel, Greg shivered and swore. He dug his hands into the covers beneath him. Mycroft began to stroke, spreading the gel along Greg's heavy cock; he found himself unable to resist the breathless flashes of pleasure across his lover's face. He kept going for a short while, letting the rhythmic motion of his hands settle his own nerves.

Greg's quiet moans were wonderful. They ignited Mycroft's every nerve with little tingles of love and longing. He looked magnificent like this, pulling gently at his own lower lip, eyes dark and fogged with enjoyment.

Mycroft worked his cock between both palms until Greg began to shake slightly, mumbling to him, "S-Sunshine...?"

His mouth now dry, his heart hammering, Mycroft shifted forwards. He placed one hand on Greg's chest for balance, and with the other guided his cock nervously into place. The first nudge cut his breath; he forced himself to inhale again, slow.

He began to sink, trembling.

It felt almost easy at first. Braced for greater discomfort than the initial stretch actually caused, emboldened by the comparative ease, Mycroft pushed on - until the first bite of pain made him twitch, tensing. His breathing skipped.

Greg's hands appeared at once.

They stroked up his arms and onto his chest, guiding him through the discomfort with long, loving sweeps. Mycroft drew his focus to Greg's touch, quaking; he let it soothe him.

"It's alright, love..." Greg's voice seemed to blur all his senses, soften them and warm them. "Take a minute..."

Mycroft's fingers flexed on Greg's chest as he breathed, his eyes shut. "Y-You are big," he whimpered.

His lover's touch grazed down his sides, whispering across his skin. "I love you."

 _Oh... oh, god..._ "I l-love you, too..."

After a few more deep breaths, the sensation of instinctive bodily resistance began to ease. Mycroft shifted his grip on Greg's chest, forcing himself to wait just a little longer. He opened his eyes to find his lover watching him gently from the pillows, his dark brown gaze full of concern.

"Any better?" he murmured.

Mycroft's heart boomed. He nodded, breathing out. "Yes... yes, a little..."

Quietly Greg smiled. "Good," he said, running his hands down Mycroft's thighs.

As Greg stroked him, perfectly slow, Mycroft eased on. He paused now and then to breathe, even when the discomfort wasn't extreme; his body needed time to remember Greg. It needed to feel safe, to know that this was happening gradually.

At last, with his lover's hand wrapped around his cock, gently reviving his flagging erection, Mycroft drew a low breath and sank down the final few inches. It ached - a deep, slick, squeezing ache - almost good. Almost there. His mouth dropped open. He moaned with it, dry-throated, bearing down around Greg's cock. _In me. Inside me._

Greg shifted with a slow breath. When he spoke, his voice had roughened. "Y-You okay, beautiful?"

Mycroft nodded, incapable of words. This would always feel intense. Without knowledge of the pleasure beyond it, it might easily feel too much. He leant forwards, curling a hand around Greg's left shoulder; Greg's grip eased up to his waist.

With his first careful shift, he barely moved. He simply stirred his pelvis a little, accustoming his body to his lover inside him. The sensation was reassuring enough to start breathing again. He shivered, letting himself have this careful half-movement for a minute or so, gazing down into Greg's face as Greg gently watched him in turn.

It grew easier, breathing together. As Mycroft tested cautious rocking, raising and lowering himself slowly, the first flush of real enjoyment warmed through his nerves. He moaned it out on his breath, then again as Greg shuddered underneath him. The flex of Greg's hands on his waist tightened his heart. _Patient with me. Waiting._ The pleasure began to come more easily, warmer, the motions of his hips a little bolder as he relaxed. A rhythm developed almost without his notice. All his focus had drawn to that cluster of sensation: the slow squeezing slide, Greg's cock nuzzling through tightly hugging muscle; the faint stomach swoop as he took Greg deeper; the warm hands anchored at his waist. The familiarity of Greg's broad chest under his fingers set his heart aching - and as he realised he was enjoying it, Mycroft let out all his breath in a rush.

He felt Greg exhale beneath him, too. His lover's expression warmed with relief, dark eyes soft and glittering; Greg smiled, his fingers sliding over Mycroft's chest.

Trembling, gazing down, Mycroft deepened the rocking of his hips. No pain arose - only longing. Greg's moan drew forth his own, and he found himself lost in the look of pleasure which washed Greg's face, committing every detail of it to memory. He wanted to keep this. _My lover. My happiness. My home._ This wasn't sex as an exchange of relief; these were words of love, spoken by their skin. _You make me happy. You make me whole._ Greg's gaze flickered, his throat muscles tightening as Mycroft's anxious moans grew in volume. _I love you._

He rode Greg's cock until the motion felt so smooth and easy he didn't understood how it had ever hurt. His body felt soft and open and wet. Greg was wonderful beneath him, patient and self-controlled, his longing escaping him in gentle twitches of his fingers or deeply-drawn breaths. He wanted to chase the sensation; he was resisting. He wanted Mycroft's comfort more.

At last, as the lighter pressure on his prostate grew frustrating and his body ached for harder, Mycroft tightened his grip on Greg's shoulders.

"F-From behind me?" he begged, surprised by the weakness of his voice.

Greg nodded, swallowing. He shifted gently as Mycroft dismounted him, stroking a hand along Mycroft's side as he watched him take up a new position - kneeling by the pillows, his hands laid nervously upon the headboard.

Greg eased close behind him, kneeling too, and covered Mycroft's back.

"Tell me if it's too much," he whispered into Mycroft's neck, nuzzling, and reached for the bottle of lubricant on the bedside. He reslicked himself as Mycroft trembled. He felt so open and empty it was obscene. The sound lit his nerves on fire; the protective wrap of Greg's free arm around his chest made him moan.

At last Greg's cock pressed gently into place, testing his body's resistance. Mycroft's mouth opened. He shuddered with anticipation, nodding in earnest, and Greg began to soothe inside him slowly - too slowly.

Mycroft arched, gripping the headboard.

"G-Greg." He swallowed, panting. "Greg, please - "

Gently, watching him for any whisper of discomfort, Greg slid his full length inside. Mycroft's stomach clenched with immediate pleasure; he dug his teeth into his lip and moaned.

_"Greg - fuck - "_

Greg shifted, inhaling hard, and braced his free hand against the headboard. Mycroft quivered and rocked back with hope.

"Tell me if I hurt you," Greg whispered against his shoulder, and started to move.

Mycroft's very soul seemed to ignite. His jaw dropped; he let out a sound he'd never heard himself make before, a keening sort of shaking plea, all the muscles in his back tightening with enjoyment as Greg began to fuck him. His thrusts were deep, slow and easy, angled just where Mycroft needed them. His hand slid down to the side of Mycroft's hip, strong fingers curling there to keep Mycroft arched back against his groin.

Mycroft gripped the headboard, breathed, and attempted not to whimper at each slow push.

His resolve crumbled within less than a minute. He let the quiet sounds come pouring from his mouth, fragmented with panting and gasps of Greg's name. Greg kept the pace gentle and slow, the rhythm unfaltering. It was almost hypnotic: the long and thick glide inside, the deep bump of pressure and pleasure at its end, then the relief of gentle withdrawal. Mycroft's body began to tighten with anticipation of each thrust. It felt like being rocked somehow, safe, no effort to make except to hold onto the headboard and moan out his pleasure. Greg's breath felt reassuring against the back of his neck; the lamplight was warm upon his skin.

How long they slowly moved together, Mycroft didn't know. He knew in his mind it could only be minutes; his heart span it out to several hours. Greg's gentle fucking turned time and its passage into nothing, gathering him safe into some altered existence where his sole and single purpose was to enjoy. Even before Greg reached around him, lightly stroking his cock in time, he found himself close to climax. Whenever the need grew intense, and Mycroft's sounds began to heighten in pitch, Greg slowed their rhythm and took him shallowly for a little while until he'd cooled. His touches were only gentle; they kept Mycroft simmering, a perfect heat of just enough, just close, just right.

_How could I not have fallen in love with you?_

Lost in pleasure, rocking back in rhythm, Mycroft realised it in such a rush it took his breath. It felt like a climax of the heart; it left him reeling, his pulse staggering.

_This was fated since the moment I touched you._

His lover nuzzled into the side of his neck.

"Is this alright?" Greg breathed, still moving, still rocking Mycroft forward into his stroking hand. Mycroft tipped back his head to rub his cheek against Greg's. "Anything I can change, darlin'?"

Mycroft's whole body seemed to breathe. Joy spilled through his veins, bright and wonderful. It felt like liquid light.

"Don't change," he whispered, rocking back. He bit down into his lip as heat burned through his belly. "Oh, god. D-Don't change a thing."

 

*

 

Greg's chest still shimmered in the lamplight. His breathing had settled, his pulse now slow and deep against Mycroft's ear. The scent of sex laid over them like a blanket, as comforting as the sheets.

Greg made the most wonderful pillow.

Feeling him breathe in this moment - feeling him _live,_ sated and happy - was a perfection unlike anything else on earth.

"Penny for your thoughts," he husked, brushing his fingers down Mycroft's back.

Mycroft smiled against his heart. "I'm going to sell the house."

"Mm hmm?"

"It doesn't make me happy." Mycroft let his eyes close, overcome by a fresh rush of realisation. "I didn't understand what happiness feels like, before you. I do, now." He stirred gently. "I'd like more of it in my life."

Greg chuckled, his voice soft and heavy. "M'glad," he said. "You deserve happiness, love. Bags of it..."

He stirred, catching Mycroft's hand from his chest and lifting it up to his lips.

"More happiness'n you can handle," he rumbled, kissing Mycroft's fingers one-by-one. "So much happiness you float."

Mycroft smiled, lifting his head from Greg's chest. "Certainly floating now."

Greg's eyes glittered.

"Good," he said, and held Mycroft's gaze as he swept his tongue between two fingers. Mycroft's stomach squirmed with kindling interest. "Darlin'?"

"Mm?"

"Have we re-awakened something?" Greg husked.

_Lord._

"Perhaps we have," Mycroft said, keeping his expression playfully neutral, even as he imagined the night ahead of them - waking Greg in the small hours to beg for his affections once more; waking Greg in the morning to pull him into the shower, press him up against the tiles and make him glad to be alive. "I think, darling, after all that we've endured, we're quite entitled to a little passion."

Greg's mouth curved. He slipped two of Mycroft's fingers between his lips, sucking them slowly.

"Only a little?" he said, releasing them, only to draw them back inside.

Mycroft smiled, stroking his wicked tongue. "Perhaps more than a little," he said.

Greg's eyes sparkled with amusement. As he let Mycroft's fingers slip from his mouth, he said, "D'you think forty condoms was a guess or a challenge?"

Mycroft grinned. "I think you of all people should know by now... Anthea's commitment to my happiness is absolute. It's good of her to supply you with the means to ensure it."

Greg's grin seemed to light the room.

"I love you," he said, pulling Mycroft up to his mouth.

It was hard to kiss while smiling so broadly. "I love you too," Mycroft whispered, stroking Greg's hair with both hands. His heart swelled into his mouth. "More with every moment, darling. More with every breath."

 

*

 

They left Cliveden a week later, with their Christmas stay already booked and a wedding brochure hidden amongst Mycroft's clothing.

Anthea had upgraded the security of the central London flat in their absence. Every window was now unbreakable, the front door unlocked by biometrics, and there were discreet panic buttons located in every room. She'd moved over those items from the house which she knew he might need; the flat's small wardrobe had been exchanged for a larger one.

"For both of us?" Greg said, amused, opening it to find it was centrally divided.

"Well... you'll be staying here for at least a few weeks." Mycroft stepped close behind him, laying a hand on his stomach. "Finding you a suitable new flat could take some time. And... I hope you'll be visiting me rather often, even when you do."

Greg grinned, settling back into his embrace.

"Teasing, love," he said. "It's nice... 'his and his'."

Mycroft smiled, kissing the slope of his shoulder. He found himself enjoying the sight of the open wardrobe.

It seemed a sign of things to come.

 

*

 

London, as ever, had three pools of available properties: exorbitant, horrendous, or not in London.

"Orpington?" Uneasy, Mycroft returned the tea towel he'd been using to its hook. "That's quite a commute, darling... an hour's drive each way."

Greg's mouth pulled, his gaze hovering on the laptop screen.

"That price, though... if I keep looking in central London, the rent's nearly double. I'd be banking on a salary increase. And those are long odds right now..."

Mycroft settled on the sofa beside him, leaning into his side. Greg's arm went at once around his shoulders.

"Well... you'd be welcome here," he said, "if you ever couldn't face the drive."

Greg gave him a small smile. "What're the chances I'll end up here six nights out of seven," he said, "while paying rent on a flat I never see?"

Mycroft smiled, too. He couldn't help it.

"High," he confessed, "if the choice were mine."

Greg huffed; he kissed Mycroft's cheek.

"I'd better book a viewing at least," he said. "M'gonna need to live _somewhere."_ He reached into his pocket for his mobile phone, fished it out, and tapped in the number listed on the website.

As he held it to his ear, Mycroft quietly hoped.

In less than thirty seconds, Greg hung up.

"Gone already," he sighed, returning his phone to his pocket. He pulled the laptop back onto his knee.

Mycroft nuzzled against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, darling," he murmured, trying not to be relieved. "I'm sure we'll find you somewhere suitable soon."

 

*

 

A few weeks passed. On the point of handing over a deposit for a place in Lower Holloway, Greg discovered that the contract was for a temporary let of six months only. The landlord refused to negotiate. Unwilling to go through this miserable process only to have to repeat it in six months, Greg backed out.

The search resumed; the same familiar patterns started to repeat. Estate agents began to tell them it wasn't the season for new properties. More would open up in spring.

Winter drew close and cosy around them. Greg insisted on cooking dinner every night. Mycroft gained nearly a stone over Christmas; he did not care. There were soon photograph frames in every room, on every wall, memories and trips and long weekends away. Their DVD collections had mingled into one. Mycroft couldn't remember what he'd contributed. He didn't want to remember.

Greg kept on viewing properties, telling Mycroft after each one that they were nice enough places - just not right.

One Sunday morning, cuddled in their afterglow in bed, with sunlight pooling on the sheets all around them, Greg brushed his fingers back Mycroft's hair. He kissed his lips, took hold of his gaze, and said,

"Look, I... I know it's not been long. I know we always planned I'd find my own place. I just... sunshine - would you - "

"Stay," Mycroft whispered. His heart pulled at its seams. "Stop searching. Please."

Greg's gaze flooded with relief. "A-Are you sure?"

"I can't bear the thought of you leaving. I couldn't bear it four months ago. I won't ever be able to bear it." Mycroft swallowed, staring into his lover's eyes. "For god's sake," he whispered, "stay. Stay for good, Greg."

Greg's expression cracked. He dragged his arms around Mycroft, rolling him over onto his back.

They didn't get out of bed until two.

As they cooked dinner together, with Sunday evening love songs on the radio and the washing machine whirring beside them, Greg put down the potato he was peeling. Mycroft heard it drop with a splash into the sink.

"I'm sorry," Greg said, reaching for a tea towel. He dried his hands, shaking. "I can't - I-I can't wait a second longer, I have to - "

Mycroft turned from the cooker top towards him, confused.

Greg sank to one knee at his feet.

 

_The End_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks again go to E.S., whose prompt for the Rupert Graves Birthday Auction got me by the heart. It was too perfect not to write to its fullest. I didn't realise how much _The Sheltering Tree_ would mean to me when I started it - then, I didn't realise what Mystrade would become to me either. Every story I write, I fall in love with them all over again. Seeing them through to the happy ever after they deserve will always make me cry.
> 
> Thank you for being here to see it, too. 
> 
> I won't ever be able to put into words what you guys give to me just by being here, reading my stories. I'll keep on writing them, hoping I can show you. There are many amazing writers out there on AO3. There are many amazing fics for you to spend your time on. 
> 
> Thank you from the bottom of my heart for taking a chance on mine. 
> 
> In a few days I'm hoping to post the first chapters of something I've been working on for a while. It's been almost painful to keep it a secret. It's a new venture for me - I hope some of you will be there to read along. 
> 
> Meanwhile, if you're new to my Mystrade stories, _[East End Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11215719)_ is fairly similar in feel to this one. You might also enjoy _[The Boss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13350129),_ especially if 'Anthea ships it' is your jam.
> 
> Thank you again for reading. 
> 
> You guys are my whole damn world.
> 
> With all my love,  
> Moth. x

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for The Sheltering Tree (2018)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17348198) by [randomscientist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomscientist/pseuds/randomscientist)




End file.
